


Wheeling, Nevada

by cincoflex



Series: Candy Shop [2]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: A Pekingese, Con jobs, Designer shoes, F/M, Las Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: 2nd Candy Shop story: Jelly Bean masterminds a con with help from Mr. Peppermint and Miss Chocolate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite stories to write, if only because a certain brash and sweet character gets to be the hero! And resemblance between the villain and a certain Californian Used Car Salesmen with the initials CW is something I can't comment on. :)

_For every wrong out there comes a right—eventually. Me, I’d rather be on the side of the forces that make those balances happen, and when we get a little extra help now and then, who am I to argue about it? Maybe that’s where the Candy Shop comes in if such a group exists.”_

**\--Edgar A. Domenech, Deputy Director Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF)  
U.S. Department of Justice**

 

The hotel pool was small, but cute; lined with genuine Mexican tiles of yellow and blue flowers, an oval set in concrete, complete with ancient diving board and striped umbrella tables set around it. Brass had opted out of sitting in the tattered plastic weave lounge chairs and was at one of the tables, his battered copy of Foundation’s End propped open with a half-empty beer.

In the water, Ellie was swimming laps, her long even strokes a credit to years of competition in the Crawl. She wore a bikini of rich purple, with little sunflowers on it and Brass thought it was too small but knew better than to say so. She reached the side under the diving board and did a neat flip turn, gliding out again through the water back in the direction she’d come from. Across from Brass, a grizzly-faced man in denim cutoffs and a stained Hawaiian shirt was openly ogling Ellie.

He sighed, and sipped his beer—the fourth, by count of the bottles on the table—and looked at Brass with a salacious smirk. “She’s almost too old for me, if you know whudda mean.”

Brass nodded, not willing to say anything. Willie Fasseman was not only a convicted wife beater, but also a sleazy connoisseur of underage girls. His felony sheet dutifully documented his crimes of the last two decades, and the seriousness of the charges rose along the timeline like a drawbridge. 

Unfortunately, the last time he’d been up on charges there had been a mistrial, and despite the fact that nearly 98 percent of the evidence gave him motive, opportunity and location for the lurid rape murders of Becky Hartmann and Stacie Suzuki here he was, guzzling beer in the quiet afternoon, ogling yet another young girl.

“I’m not no pervert, but when they’re all young and fresh, like peaches just gettn’ ripe--ooooh that makes the old cannon salute, ya know?”

“So you say,” Brass murmured with a mildness he didn’t feel. He turned his attention back to his book, adding softly, “I’m not her type, anyway. I don’t like swimming much.”

“Zat a fact?” Willie muttered, his attention on Ellie once more. “Mebbe I should go introduce myself to a hot little number like that.”

Brass managed a little distracted nod, focusing on Asimov’s prose once more as Willie stretched and made a show of stripping off his shirt. His tattoos looked smudged against his middle-aged skin, homemade ones from prison. Brass noted the roll of gut on the man, and his paint-spattered hands with their dirty nails.

He thought of Susan Hartmann, sitting in Miss Lollipop’s office, her empty eyes and defeated shoulders saying more than any words ever could.

“Hey handsome!” Ellie called cheerily. Willie Fasseman sauntered over quickly.

“Hey yourself. That water cold enough for ya?”

“It’s not bad,” Ellie trod water, smiling up at the man. Brass fought the clench of his teeth, and kept his eyes on his book. Ellie said something that made Fasseman laugh, and the intimate sound of their conversation grated on his nerves. He drew in a breath and glanced over out of habit more than concern. Ellie was swimming out towards the diving board, her head above water.

Fasseman was loping over to it, bragging to her. “I’ll show you my backflip if you want. Hell, I’ll show you anything you wanna _see_ , honey.”

“I don’t think you can do a backflip. You’re too muscled,” Ellie cooed, treading water just off to the side of the board’s end, her smile taunting.

Fasseman grinned at her, and stepped up the three aluminum rungs. The board itself was fairly old; a fiberglass springboard with a coating of grit painted down on the surface to cut down on slippage. Fasseman strutted down to the end of it and leered down at Ellie, widening his stance so she could see him in all his paunchy glory. She gave an appreciative sigh.

“Nice—now let’s see that backside—I mean backflip, Stud!”

Guffawing, Fasseman adjusted himself and turned around on the board, orienting himself right at the edge. As he shifted his big pale feet, Ellie dunked down. She pushed herself up off the bottom of the pool and rose up like a rocket, reaching for Fasseman’s ankles when she broke the surface, and yanking them hard off the end of the diving board.

Fasseman lurched forward, his face smacking hard on the fiberglass with a rattling meaty ‘splat’. He tumbled off the end of the board into the water, blood spraying from his nose. Ellie looped her long thighs around his neck and reached up to grip the diving board, using it to brace herself. Under the water, Fasseman struggled, but Ellie’s firm grip around his throat tightened—not enough to leave marks, but certainly to keep him under the water.

She held him below the surface, her fingers gripping the sides of the diving board to stabilize herself, and after four minutes a last rush of pink-tinged bubbles rose to the surface around her. Ellie loosened her legs and dogpaddled away, reaching the edge of the pool closest to Brass.

He was already there, helping her out, checking her over. Ellie shook a little, both from cold and shock. Brass wrapped a towel around her snugly, and pulled her into a hug, murmuring softly against her wet hair. “How you doing, Honey?”

“I . . . I might be sick,” she confessed, and Brass nodded. Carefully he steered her towards the trash can near the gate. Soothingly he rubbed her back while she leaned over and retched into the plastic-lined can, murmuring a few words of comfort to her.

“Hands-on is hard, yeah I know, but I’m proud of you for tackling it this way, kid—it won’t bring Becky or Stacie or any of the others back, but the people who loved them can rest a hell of a lot easier now.”

Ellie rose up, wiping her mouth with her forearm, her eyes watery but determined. She nodded to her father, and took a deep shuddery breath. “Yeah, I know that.” Then she sobbed. “Daddy—”

Brass hugged her again, feeling a surge of pride and pain as Ellie clung to him, her shaking subsiding after long quiet minutes. Eventually he handed her the room key and spoke softly. “I’m going to call 911. You go take a shower and rest a while; watch TV or something. I’ll bring us some Chinese and we’ll get an early start in the morning. Okay?”

Ellie nodded, and glanced over his shoulder at the pool. Fasseman’s body was beginning to rise, floating under the diving board. She straightened her shoulders.

“Does it . . . does it get easier, the more you do it?” she asked her father timidly. 

Brass shook his head slowly, his eyes stern. “No. And it shouldn’t. The day it does is the day I quit the Shop and pray for my own soul, Ellie honey.”

He watched her go up, and then carefully scooped out the trash bag. Moving swiftly, Brass re-lined the trashcan and carried the original trash out to his car, stowing in the trunk. He threw three of Fasseman’s beers into the garbage, leaving one on the table and then called 911 on his burner cell phone.

In a low voice he reported, “Some guy floating in the Desert Oasis pool out by Route Forty.”

* * *

He let himself in quietly as he carried the cutoff cardboard box into the room. Ellie was there; curled up on one of the beds, sound asleep as CNN droned on from the TV. Brass set the box down on the dresser and sighed, adding the car keys and receipt as well. A few strobing lights on the curtains told him that at least one police cruiser was down in the parking lot, and he was pretty sure they’d be getting a knock at the door in the next twenty minutes.

Brass glanced over at the sleeping girl, noting the graceful curve of her back through her sweater, and a pang resonated through his chest as he did so. Blinking, the wave of memory washed over him, the little connected moments passing through his thoughts once more . . .

Ellie at eight, small and serious: _“Daddy, why don’t you love Mommy any more?”_

_“I do love her baby—it’s just right now . . . well, I’m not the man she married. I’m different, and that makes it hard for us to love each other. And I’m trying to change back, but it’s tougher than I thought. You know how my job takes it out on all of us.”_

_“Being a cop, yeah. It scares me, daddy.”_

_“Sometimes it scares me too, Ellie.”_

Ellie at fifteen, frustrated and probing, too smart sometimes:

_“Dad, I don’t understand. You don’t work for the department anymore but you still carry a gun. You go off in uniform sometimes and plainclothes at other times, and take these trips to weird places and now you want the two of us to move halfway across the country to Las Vegas? “_

_“It’s . . . closer to the central office. And you know I’m a private detective—that’s not so weird.”_

_“No. You’re a lot happier than you were a few years ago, but I worry about you. There have been shootings at some of the places you’ve taken trips to, and I don’t want you to get shot, Dad.”_

_“Ah so that’s it. Well I can’t promise you I’ll never get shot—big country, too many guns as it is—but you’re going to have to trust me that I’m doing . . . a good job. I get to be with you, I get to make a difference to people who didn’t get a fair shake from the courts or the Justice system . . . come on, Ellie, it’s not a bad life, is it?”_

_“I just want you to be safe, Dad.”_

Ellie at nineteen, finally hearing the truth, her eyes bright, her expression serious: _“Oh God! So . . . you’re a vigilante. Taking justice into your own hands . . . Dad, how many years have you been DOING this?”_

_“About six years now.”_

_“You LIKE it?”_

_“No, not always. But I can live with that. It’s the sense of . . . rightness lets me sleep at night, sweetheart. I know there are hundreds of good cops out there all over the world, hard-working Joes who struggle to put the scum behind bars. They work with the system and most of the time the whole justice machinery works just fine. But there are cracks in it, Ellie. And some of the rapists and murderers and monsters make it through those cracks, so that’s where I come in. I take out the ones who should never have gotten away, and it’s a big damned responsibility. I never take on a case unless it’s been checked and verified and I know that what I’m doing is right.”_

_“You . . . kill . . . bad guys.”_

_“Yeah. I kill bad guys. I kill them faster and more painlessly than they ever killed their own victims. A lot of times I make it look like an accident. Sometimes I don’t—when a point needs to be made once in a while, you know? And it’s not easy or any sort of a thrill for me, Ellie. I’m not in it to get off on the power of life and death. I do this because there are victims and families and cops and judges and citizens who can’t do it, but know it NEEDS to be done.”_

_“So you’re a hit man for the public, the avenging arm of thwarted justice? Oh my GOD Dad, I don’t know what to say! It’s . . . dangerous, it’s wrong and it’s right and I can’t believe you’re telling me all this NOW!”_

_“Dayton Kroeger.”_

_“Day—oh Jesus. That serial killer that hacked up Girl Scouts? Oh God—Dad?"_

_“Dayton Kroeger, who slipped between the cracks because the security at a mental hospital wasn’t nearly good enough to hold a murdering sociopath with enough time to plan an escape. A remorseless killer who killed again in the first twelve hours he was on the run. I shot him while he was being escorted up the back steps of the courthouse.”_

_“You—that was on the news! They never found the shooter—Dad . . . “_

_“Me. Didn’t want any glory, Ellie. I wanted those parents to be able to sleep in peace for the first time in years. I don’t expect you to understand all of it honey, but this is the way it is. You’re not little anymore, but you’re still my girl, and you deserve to know. I’ve got a will and a trust fund going for you in case anything happens to me.”_

Ellie at twenty, numb in the weeks after Matt’s funeral, her voice low and tinged with an ongoing pain. _“So this is what it’s like.”_

_“Sweetheart—"_

_“He’s gone. Dead and made into some blurb on page five in the city news and every night I can see him but nobody else even gives a DAMN that he’s dead.”_

_“Ellie, that’s not fair—"_

_“Exactly, Dad. It’s not fair. And for the first time I understand exactly why you do what you do. Now it makes sense in a way I never thought I’d get. My Matt’s dead, and out there is some—some brutal, uncaring THUG walking around breathing his air and taking his space! Somebody who drove away to leave Matt bleeding and crawling on the highway! Somebody without the Goddamn conscience to admit they fucked up, and now think they’ll get away with it! It makes me crazy!!”_

_“They’ll catch the guy, Ellie. The crime lab in this city is the second best in the country.”_

_“If they had anything, they would have done it by now. Don’t bullshit me, Dad. I’m not naïve; I’ve studied enough Criminal Justice to know Matt’s case gets colder with every passing day, and in the scheme of things a hit and run is small potatoes in this city. Nobody cares. Nobody cares about those of us left behind.”_

_“Ellie, that’s not true.”_

_“It is, and I see it now. You’re right, Dad. You’re the little secret cog that nobody sees, but the one that can make the whole clock move. And you know what? I respect that. Hell, I even envy that right now. It’s not about revenge, or power or a miscarriage of justice . . . it’s about putting a little piece right. You do the needed thing, you fill the hole and stop the evil gushing out and that’s what I want to do too. Because I don’t ever want anyone to feel this--helpless. The way I’ll feel about Matt **forever**.”_

Brass closed his eyes. The knock on the door was soft, and he moved to answer it, a carton of cashew chicken in his hands. The uniformed officer glanced apologetically at him, and beyond, at Ellie stirring on the bed.

“Excuse me Sir; Ma’am. I hate to disturb you, but I need to ask you both a few questions?”

*** *** ***

Grissom watched Miss Chocolate’s hands, sliding gently and soothingly down the furry spine of Porthos. The heavyset cat purred in a low lawnmower hum, arching against her hands and generally making an adoring nuisance of himself. Miss Chocolate kept stroking, neither too fast nor too slow; just enough to bring the maximum sound from the chubby tabby.

“He sounds like an Evinrude,” she commented playfully. Grissom set the file down and stared at the cat, hoping that the flicker of envy didn’t show.

“He’s fond of you, just as Aramis is. Once you win over Athos, you’ll have the set.”

“What about D’Artagnan?” Miss Chocolate asked, arching an eyebrow. They sat in the workroom below the Book Hive, looking over a few recommended cases from Miss Lollipop and sipping Twenty Blue Devils. Grissom sighed.

“He has yet to arrive from Gascony, so to speak; there were only three kittens in the litter I found.”

“Ah. So Milady DeWinter didn’t do him in.” Giving the cat a last pat, Miss Chocolate settled into one of the chairs at the big worktable. Porthos flicked his tail.

Grissom nodded, and turned his attention back to the file he held. “Not yet. So--are you going to be helping Jelly Bean with his scheme against the infamous Uncle Chip?”

Miss Chocolate gave a sigh and nodded. “I owe him, and it could be . . . fun.”

“It could be a complete disaster,” Grissom countered, but in a gentle tone. Porthos sauntered over to him and gave a hopeful ‘mrrrow?’ of inquiry. With a sigh, Grissom let the cat settle into his lap, and pretended to be annoyed about it.

“That’s possible too, although the Bean is pretty creative at times.”

Grissom looked over the top of his file. “Flamboyance has its place,” he agreed mildly. “And speaking of places, have you found one yourself yet?”

Miss Chocolate smiled deeply, her dimples showing. “There’s a slip at a little private marina between the Lake Mead one and the Las Vegas one. Fifteen other boats, and only about six of them have full-time residents, so I’ll have some privacy too. The rent is reasonable, even with electrical hookup and water, and they’ve taken my deposit, so things are looking up.”

Grissom smiled, pleased for her good fortune, and absently stroked Porthos. “That IS a positive, although . . .”

“Although?” she prompted, but from her tone he knew she suspected the question that was coming. Grissom asked it anyway.

“Although I honestly have to wonder why you’d pay to move a thirty-foot yacht when you could sell it and buy one here,” he finished lightly. “It’s got to be prohibitively expensive.”

Miss Chocolate shook her head gently. “I could never sell the _Boston Bohemian_ , Mr. Peppermint. He’s been my good luck charm ever since I got him, first in his namesake city and then in San Francisco. I’ve lived onboard that yacht for the last six years and I’m not about to change now.”

Grissom cocked his head, catching the contented tone in her voice, and wishing faintly that he was the reason for it instead of a boat. In the past month he’d agreed to follow Miss Lollipop’s directive and keep an eye on both Jelly Bean and Miss Chocolate, which meant he spent more time with both of them, not always in a professional setting.

He’d taken Jelly Bean to a baseball game to watch him practice his art as much as see the 51s play. The Bean never kept anything he lifted, cheerfully turning in the wallets to the security office and to various stadium guards along the bleachers while chatting all the while about various schemes to discredit Chip Harrington, the local used car tycoon. The afternoon had been unexpectedly . . . fun.

Miss Chocolate in turn had asked him, shyly, for help in moving. The logistics of having a yacht shipped overland from San Francisco to Las Vegas Grissom had left to her, and turned to handling the paperwork needed to change her residency and get her the needed permits and licenses. Mr. Marshmallow had been willing to help, and between them Miss Chocolate was well on her way to becoming a citizen of Las Vegas proper.

The Candy Shop was all about circumventing the bureaucracy, Grissom decided, nearly missing Miss Chocolate’s next words to him.

“ . . . And so I was wondering if you’d mind being there when he’s launched in. He’s due tomorrow, and I’d be happy to um, bribe you with dinner . . . “ her words trailed off and she didn’t look at him; Grissom felt breathlessness in his chest that was both very good and slightly scary. He blinked and stroked the cat in his lap once more, a little stunned.

“I don’t. . . ” Grissom murmured, and felt the rush of blood to his cheeks, “ . . . need a bribe. All part of the job.”

He glanced up in time to see some of the gentle sweetness of her smile fade, and the squeeze in his chest intensified. He cleared his throat, but Miss Chocolate gave a slow nod and reached for her purse, rising to her feet quickly.

Grissom spoke again, the words leaving before he gave them any thought. “But celebrating a boat launching IS a momentous occasion. I’ll bring the champagne.”

That caught her by surprise, and she blinked, wide-eyed at him, her mouth curving up again. “Oh really?”

“Absolutely. A bottle of the best Baroni for the _Boston Bohemian_. I’ll put it on my shopping list,” Grissom assured her gravely, and the full glow of her expression was enough to make him smile in return.

* * *

Jawbreaker gently patted the steering wheel of his Ford pickup, smiling broadly under his baseball cap and sunglasses. One car ahead of him at the gas station he saw Licorice, his Rasta braids tucked up in a hairnet, lazily idling his Camaro, the stereo blasting loudly enough to deafen anyone within fifteen feet and keep a rumble in the still, dry air.

And between them, looking tense, annoyed and impatient sat Mr. E.

Grinning, Jawbreaker watched as the Camaro blocked off Mr. E’s SUV, keeping it from pulling away from the pumps. For a long couple of moments he saw Mr. E debate with himself about moving, and then check his watch. That apparently decided it, and he climbed out, moving gingerly towards the driver side door of the Camaro.

Time to swing into action. Jawbreaker carefully fished out the little baggie and tucked it into his jeans pocket, then climbed out of his truck and headed into the Mini Mart. He bought a Pepsi and a bag of pork rinds, and by the time he stepped out, the argument was in full swing, right on schedule.

“Listen to me, Baldie, I’m not DONE pumping, and I’m not stopping just so you can pull your whack, fake-ass chariot out and get back to your McMansion, dig?” came Licorice’s menacing rumble.

“Look I don’t want any trouble, but I have an appointment and what I’m asking is perfectly reasonable,” Mr. E replied, looking petulant and a little scared. Jawbreaker waved his Pepsi and interrupted them.

“Hey, I’m done pumping, so why don’t I just back up and let the dude out?” he offered cheerily, “No biggie to me.”

Licorice gave an insouciant shrug. “Whatever, Cowboy. Just don’t expect me to shut down before my tank’s filled.”

Turning to Mr. E, Jawbreaker managed a sunny smile at him. “Just a minute and I’ll back my truck up, okay?”

“That would be great.” Mr. E’s relief was almost palpable; he climbed back into his SUV and turned his attention to the rearview mirror, waiting. Jawbreaker crossed in front of his truck and behind the SUV, tossing his keys in the air. He dropped them, and bent down out of sight to pick them up, moving swiftly and slipping the baggie out of his pocket. He pulled the thick wad out of the baggie and slapped it under the SUV, wedging it firmly along the ridged bottom of the gas tank, then fished for the detonator, jamming it deep into the round pancake.

Jawbreaker rose up, keys in hand, grinning apologetically. Mr. E gave an impatient nod, waiting as the Ford pickup began to back up. When there was enough room, the SUV pulled out and Mr. E merged back into traffic, heading west along the Fifteen. Jawbreaker pulled up behind the Camaro and watched as Licorice came over to him, his expression still slightly fierce.

“Good to go?”

 

“Good to go. Meet you there.”

 

An hour later, the pickup and the Camaro were parked on a lonely road in the bluffs, overlooking an abandoned produce stand far below. Lying across one of the flat rocks, Jawbreaker refocused the lenses of the binoculars and grinned. “Looks like our man’s early for the meeting.”

 

“He’s totally retentive, Nick—you read his file. I’m surprised he doesn’t have that dumbass bodyguard of his with him too.” Licorice muttered, peering through his own binoculars.

“Metcalf, yeah. There’s a bozo waiting for his circus,” Jawbreaker agreed with a grin. Just then a long sleek powder blue Coupe de Ville came gliding down the highway, slowing as it approached the fruit stand. It pulled in and around the structure, and two men got out, looking around. Jawbreaker sighed.

“Hey Warrick, what’s the Spanish word for doofus?”

“I think it’s El Stokes,” he replied, making the other man growl a little.

“Fun-ee, pal. Who’s Ecklie meeting with down there?”

Licorice stared hard through the lenses. “Looks like Pinole Pablo and one of his goons . . . what do you know? I guess we DO have a border buyer.”

“Smuggling arms—that’s so unpatriotic,” Jawbreaker murmured.

“Good money though,” Licorice commented. “Since you feel so strongly about it, I think you ought to do the honors.”

“With pleasure. Let me know when they go inside.”

A few moments later, Licorice nodded, and Jawbreaker grinned. He pulled out a lighter from the breast pocket of his shirt, and flicked the wheel; deep within the lighter the electric surge pulsed out in a wave that carried across the bluffs down to the waiting car below.

The C-4 planted under Conrad Ecklie’s SUV full of handguns stolen from the Evidence locker of the LVPD ignited in a glorious fireball of bright orange flame and sable smoke, the mingled colors rising up high into the desert air. The rumble rolled out, and high on the bluff, Jawbreaker and Licorice smiled matching grins of glee. Down below the frantic scramble of the three men took on Stooge-like movements.

“Man, it’s so sad to see a deal like that blow up in your face,” Licorice murmured with a straight face.

Jawbreaker grinned toothily. “Yeah. Pinole Pablo won’t be too happy with this sorta bang for his buck. Think Ecklie’s ever gonna learn?”

Licorice shook his head, his braids swinging gently. “I hope not—it’s too much damned fun going Wiley Coyote on his ass. Come on—Miss Lollipop’s got us on something new this week.”

They climbed into their cars and drove off, leaving the rising column of smoke and the faint sounds of sirens in their wake.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Anybody who thinks there are secret organizations up and running across this country is crazy; nothing effective or productive ever lasts without funding, and that most certainly includes the so-called Candy Shop.”_

**\--Carlos M. Guiterrez, Secretary of Commerce**

 

“I like it,” Sara murmured in throaty approval. Jelly Bean rubbed his hands together gleefully and looked over at Mr. Peppermint, who had an expression of grudging admiration mingled with skepticism. He tapped a knuckle against his teeth, and then looked up at the younger man thoughtfully as they all sat around the glass conference table at the Candy Shop.

“What if he won’t take the offer?” Mr. Peppermint asked.

“Oh he will—despite all the ads and appearances the man’s seriously strapped for cash. Too much going to bribes, ex-wives, and his horse farm out in Kentucky. We’re going to look like two million in manna from heaven to Uncle Chip if we play this right.”

“What’s the layout going to cost?” Sara asked quietly. “The Sirocco isn’t cheap, and I assume we’re going to have to put on the dog if we want to make the right impression.”

“Miss Lollipop’s gotten us a respectable line of credit through Cayman Associates, so the cards stop there. We’ve got the go-ahead with Millander Theatrics, and paid for the back room of the Desert Rose for the week, so the props are good to go,” Jelly Bean chirped. “The only thing I’m waiting on is the limo rental and whether or not we can get Portia Richmond to play along. She’s been stung a few times by Uncle Chip, and I know that tragedy story about Rosalla Santilla got to her, but she might need tea with Miss Lollipop to seal the deal.”

“Portia would add credibility,” Mr. Peppermint approved, sipping his coffee. “So—who are we?” he asked the younger man courteously. Jelly Bean grinned and passed out folders to both of them. Sara opened hers and laughed aloud.

“Foxy Francisco? You have GOT to be kidding me, right?”

“It’s a GREAT name!” Jelly Bean protested, “Goes well with your ex-show girl trophy babe status, you know?”

“It’s . . .” Sara searched for a word to describe her skeptical, feminist response, but finally sighed. Mr. Peppermint gave her a commiserating glance.

“I’m not much better. I’m Pete Williamsen, AKA RePete, the Repo King of South Chicago.” He glared. “Greg, you know this is a con, not central casting for a screwball comedy, right?”

“Come on—where’s the fun if we don’t take a moment to laugh at ourselves, right?” Jelly Bean shot back, eyes sparkling. “Lest you think I was harsh on you, I’M Dooley Wilson, your long suffering nephew.”

“Dooley Wilson? The piano player from Casablanca?” Sara blurted, earning a raised eyebrow from Mr. Peppermint and a confused look from Jelly Bean. In defense, she muttered, “Hey, Berkeley had a film studies course requirement as part of their GE.”

“You mean there really WAS a person named Dooley Wilson?” Jelly Bean demanded in a worried tone. Both Sara and Mr. Peppermint nodded.

“I’m afraid so—he was instrumental to the film, since he played the theme song of “As Time Goes By,” Mr. Peppermint replied, keeping a straight face with difficulty.

“Annnnd, he was African-American, Greg—something you’re not, if you hadn’t noticed,” Sara added.

Jelly Bean pouted for a moment, then squared his shoulders. “Ah well. Then I’ll be Dooley Williamsen then. It won’t take much to change the IDs if I talk to Mr. Marshmallow before the end of the day. The point is, you two are an item, the big money players in this drama and I’m the scheming underdog. We want Chip to think that I’m the weak link here, and that if he sells to me, he’s got a chance to keep the money AND get me to sell back to him, got it?”

“Got it,” Mr. Peppermint nodded, looking down at his folder again. “So based on your research, Chip is in debt and more than likely willing to sell at least one of his lots. Which one is the chop shop?”

“He moves it around, but lately he’s been favoring the West Sahara/Rainbow Blvd. site. That’s the one to push for, definitely.”

“And my part in this?” Sara asked with amusement. Jelly Bean grinned at her.

“Distraction and misdirection, lookout mostly. If Grissom and I are going to pull this off, we need a buffer who fits into the gestalt here, and a nice piece of eye candy works for Vegas.”

“That is SO sexist,” she muttered, still managing a soft grin. Jelly Bean laughed, folding his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah, pret-ty tough job—designer clothes, full access to the salon, spa and sauna, a few shopping sprees, fancy dinners—it’s brutal, I know.”

“Hey, this means high heels, and you don’t KNOW torture until you’ve put in six or seven hours in those!” Sara replied tartly.

“I think we’re getting away from the point here,” Mr. Peppermint broke in gently. “If we want to get this job rolling by tomorrow night we need to pull together our wardrobes, props and credentials.”

“Right,” Jelly Bean agreed cheerfully. “So we need to stop in and get our photos taken, and then after that, a cruise through Millander’s and tonight we check in at the Sirocco, around seven I guess.”

“Can we make it nine?” Sara interrupted softly. “I’ve got a pretty big delivery coming, in case you forgot.”

Jelly Bean nodded, his grin wider. “Of course! Meet up here for the limo and we’ll take off around nine then.”

***

 

Elderly, elegant Portia Richmond glanced at her personal secretary, who was busy with her Palm Pilot. Out of the corner of her eye, she also saw her bodyguard who was trying not to be caught watching the secretary as well. She gave a faint smirk—ah, young love, even if Regina was utterly clueless and Samuel hopelessly tongue-tied.

She turned back to her hostess and sighed, turning her thoughts to more serious matters. “Very well, Heather, but I do expect a favor in return—agreed?”

“Agreed, Portia. I’d be delighted to assist you on any matter quid pro quo,” Miss Lollipop murmured, pouring more tea. This time the service was sterling silver, with ornate Georgian engraving over the gleaming surfaces.

The two women sat on the penthouse balcony of the Truman Tower, a large office building on Charleston Boulevard. The three of them: Portia Richmond, Heather Marazek and Regina Owens, sat around the linen-covered table while Vartann stood on watch, dutifully scanning the street below and occasionally looking towards the tea party.

“Good. To be completely honest, Harrington HAS been a bit of a thorn in my side for a long time, and then that terrible incident with the Santilla girl . . .” Shaking her head, Portia let her words trail off; Miss Lollipop nodded sympathetically.

“Dreadful scandal; selling a used vehicle knowing full well the brakes were damaged,” she agreed. “That poor girl and her toddler . . .”

Portia nodded, sipping slowly. She caught Heather’s eye and a cunning gleam flashed between them as the two women smiled briefly; a little ‘beep’ sounded, interrupting the moment and Regina Owens waved the Palm Pilot sheepishly as she blushed.

“All right, Miss Richmond; you have a dinner booking for six at the Seraglio in the Tangiers tomorrow night. Should I contact Mr. Bennett?”

“No, no—I don’t intend to stay around Chip Harrington any longer than I must,” Portia announced loftily. She glanced at her diamond wristwatch and began to rise from the table, adding, “I intend to catch the ten o’clock show at the Atlantis after that dinner obligation, and I’d like you to come with me, Regina, so we need to get you an appropriate evening dress. Heather, it has been lovely. Samuel, call the car for us, please and I’ll need you to come with us shopping,”

“Ma’am?” came Vartann’s slightly startled reply. Portia smiled up at him as she picked up her purse. She gave Miss Lollipop soft little air kisses to each cheek then turned back to her bodyguard, who already had taken out his walkie-talkie.

“Don’t be dense, Samuel darling—we’ll need those big muscles of yours to carry the packages and bags. Come a-long, children,” she sang. So saying, Portia swept out, leaving her hostess to smile with satisfaction over the late afternoon panorama of the Las Vegas skyline. Miss Lollipop sipped her tea, feeling a rare content for the moment: Sugar Daddy and Baby were on their way home; young Jelly Bean had matters well in hand for his latest venture, and both Jaw Breaker and Licorice were officially qualified now to play with high explosives.

Things were looking wonderful at the Candy Shop.

***

Grissom smiled. Miss Chocolate’s obvious delight was infectious, and now that the moment of launching was at hand he himself felt a little of her mood reflected in himself. They stood in the last light of the late afternoon at the launch ramp for Grace Marina, waiting to give the lift operator the go ahead to release the boat. Grissom held out the bottle of Baroni to her, feeling an odd flush of shyness.

“I know it’s already been christened, but launching to a lake should be commemorated,” he told Miss Chocolate, in a low voice. She looked at the bottle, then at him, and her hesitation made them both laugh.

“Such wasted potential . . .” came her mock-mournful comment as she took the heavy bottle. Grissom shrugged.

“We’ll have lots of opportunities to indulge later tonight,” he reminded her, going a little pink as he added, “--In champagne that is. For the job.”

Miss Chocolate took the bottle, fingering the fluffy collar of ribbons on it and nodded. “Oh definitely. I don’t know about you, but I bet Jelly Bean’s going to run up the expenses to insure authenticity for us.”

Grissom gave moue of agreement, and then gestured to the patient lift operator. “Very probably. Shall we?”

Miss Chocolate cleared her throat. “Okay . . . um, for the honor of this occasion—“ She swung the bottle and it smashed with a satisfying spray of foam and glass, raining down across the ramp as the lift operator gave a slow round of sardonic applause.

Within half an hour, the _Boston Bohemian_ was securely tied up at slip seven, near the end of the wharf. Grissom followed behind Miss Chocolate as she gave him a tour of her home, the pride and affection in her voice evident, even as she tried to play down how much the yacht meant to her.

“This is the deck, obviously, and I’ve got a Tohatsu outboard motor under wraps there . . .” Miss Chocolate pointed to a bright blue tarp secured with bungee cords. Grissom nodded, glancing at the thick bundled sails, also secured with cords along the heavy nine-foot boom.

“Do you ever sail?”

“Oh yeah, every now and then. Some friends and I brought the Bohemian through the Canal and around to the West Coast all on canvas . . . mostly. That was the last big sail for this bad boy.” She patted the boom affectionately. “I might take him out on the lake once I get my things settled in. Want to see the rest of him?”

Nodding, he followed her up a short angled ladder to a cozy white-walled pilothouse that made up the bridge, the big windows wrapping around to provide a 180-degree view. All the equipment, from the wheel to the GPS and radio were top of the line; Grissom noted there was enough room to hold a table and a few chairs as well.

“Roomy—for a yacht,” he observed.

“For one or two people, yeah,” Miss Chocolate agreed. “Follow me--” she led the way back to the ladder, and moved down this time, bringing Grissom to an unexpectedly spacious wood-paneled central living room down below. It held a galley near the stern end, and a pair of long comfortable-looking sofas covered in corded corduroy built into the walls. The portholes on either side were as big as manhole covers and framed with curtains; Grissom was amused to see they were white eyelet.

Miss Chocolate gestured forward, towards the bow end, murmuring, “The head and shower are behind the door to the left, and straight ahead are the two staterooms.”

“It’s . . .” Grissom tried to find the right word and settled for, “cozy.”

Apparently, that was the right word; Miss Chocolate smiled again and moved to the galley, plugging in various appliances in efficient fashion across the counter. “Thanks. The hatch bolts three different ways from the inside, and I have a motion detector and camera wired into the mast, so I’m pretty secure at night.”

Her words sent a little relief through Grissom and he nodded, moving to stand in the middle of the living room and feel the gentle sway of the hull on the water. The subtle rocking motion reminded him of--

Oh.

\--Of things he needed not to think about. Clearing his throat, he looked over at Miss Chocolate and sighed. “I need to talk to you about our roles tonight.”

Miss Chocolate turned around and braced her hands behind her hips against the counter, giving him an encouraging smile. For a moment, they both listened to the soft lapping of the waves against the yacht.

“If we’re going to pretend to be . . . involved . . .” Grissom fumbled a bit, trying to express himself, “Then our charade is going to require some . . . physicality.”

“Of course,” Miss Chocolate murmured, not quite meeting his eye. “But we’re both mature enough to handle that. I mean—it’s all part of the job . . . and everything.”

“Precisely,” Grissom agreed with a nod. “It has to look natural—we’re trying to fool a man skilled in reading body language and nonverbal cues. Therefore, I suppose the point that I’m trying to make is that I may, in the course of this charade, be required to . . . occupy your personal space, to a certain degree.”

He felt the heat rising from his collar, the dampness in his palms and wondered why this wasn’t as easy to actually say as it had been to practice in front of his bathroom mirror. Grissom risked a glance at Miss Chocolate and saw with fascination that she was biting her lower lip. Out of embarrassment? He wondered.

Then he heard her soft little choked chuckle. She reached out one of her hands, long and cool, laying it on his wrist. Her touch was soothing, and Grissom looked down at her fingers. “Well it means I have to move into yours too, so I guess we’re both going to have to work on it together. Look at it this way—once I’m Foxy and you’re Pete, we’re officially different people, right? And anything those two do is just part of a situation that’s not . . . real.”

Grissom nodded again, feeling both reluctant and relieved. He checked his watch and spoke up softly. “Right—and it’s about time to get started.”

***

The limo pulled up to the front of the Sirocco Hotel and Casino in one smooth glide; the doorman and two bellboys scurried to it under the glittering lights of the canopy. A few people passing through the doors into the casino stopped to gawk, and several others shot admiring or envious looks as the occupants of the sleek ride climbed out.

First came a spiky-haired young man sloppily dressed in a sharkskin suit of dark green silk. He sported a diamond stud in one earlobe and a Rolex too heavy for his thin wrist. His expression was slightly sullen, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit. “Great, we’re here—finally.” He whined, turning to speak to the next person climbing out of the car. “About time.”

“Oh it’s niiiiiiice,” came the throaty purr of the woman moving next to him. She was tall, her excellent figure accentuated by her clingy mini-sweater dress of honey colored wool. Her hair was a riot of rich brown Shirley Temple curls bouncing as she tossed her head and blew an enormous bubble gum bubble through glossy pink lips. She held a fluffy Pekingese in her arms; the dog licked her wrist in long happy strokes. “Me and Grenadine like it already—right my sweetie fluffy boy?” she asked the dog affectionately.

“Foxy! Fine as your ass is, honey, you gotta move it and let me get out," called a voice with strong Midwest inflection. Obligingly the woman shifted over, blowing another bubble as the speaker rose out of the car and meticulously straightened his cuffs.

The man wore a pinstriped Hugo Boss suit of charcoal gray matching his hair and goatee. He gave a sharp glance around and caught the eye of the bell captain, waving him over. “Johnny-on-the-spot—good timing! Take our bags to the Golden Harem penthouse suite and tell the kitchen to have a nice picnic platter laid on for midnight.” To underscore this order, he shoved six fifty-dollar bills in the man’s hand. “Dooley, Foxy, let’s go get something to drink, whadda ya say?”

“Whatever,” Greg shrugged, working hard on looking bored. He trailed behind Miss Chocolate and Mr. Peppermint, maintaining a sulk and looking around carefully, studying the layout and feeling the surge of excitement through his shoulders.

As they passed through the main doors and into the general chaos of the casino, the harmonious cacophony of slot machines, voices and Muzak filled the spacious gaming floor. Slinky cocktail waitresses sailed by, clad in filmy harem girl costumes, and the décor leaned heavily towards potted palms and Saharan motifs. Without breaking stride, Mr. Peppermint led the way in towards the Moroccan arch doorway with the sign over it that read ‘The Oasis.’ Miss Chocolate followed, clutching the Pekingese protectively, and Greg was delighted to see her add an extra saucy sway to her ass with every step.

Yeah, some things about this con were damned good, he thought with a quick grin.

All too soon, the three of them were ensconced in a booth at the Oasis, talking quietly over their drinks. Both Greg and Mr. Peppermint had opted for whisky, neat, while Miss Chocolate sipped a margarita. Grenadine curled up on the seat near her hip, content for the moment.

“Okay, so here’s what we do. I’m going to cruise the gaming floor, making a rep for myself tonight. Big tips, a few snide comments about you two, the works. I won’t get plastered but I may be a little mellow by the time I make it up to the suite,” Greg assured them, checking his watch.

Mr. Peppermint tossed back his drink and sighed. “And us?”

“Chip’s usually on one of two places here—either at the blackjack tables, or in one of the private games. You both know what he looks like, so keep an eye out, but don’t make contact unless it’s positive. Blow some money tonight—not a ton, but have fun with it. You’re big wheels from out of town looking for some good times and maybe an investment or two. Play it up, and head on to the suite around midnight—we can debrief and get some sleep. Questions?”

“Yeah, um, what do I do about the dog?” Miss Chocolate asked in an amused tone. “I know he’s on loan from Gum Drop’s mother, but we don’t even have any FOOD for him.”

Greg smiled. “Don’t worry—this place will fall all over themselves to make you and poochie happy. Hodges told me Grenadine’s a retired show dog; he’s used to travel and noise so that makes him a perfect prop for us. I know for a fact that Chip likes dogs—it’s an easy in if it comes to that, right?”

She nodded, shooting a glance at Mr. Peppermint, who looked from Greg to her. He squared his shoulders and reached over, chucking her lightly under her chin. “What say you and me go win you some new Astrabellas, Baby Doll?”

“Oh yeah, like I said—niiiiiiiice,” Miss Chocolate purred back as the waitress came over, eager to refill their glasses.

***

At the blackjack table, Sara leaned over Mr. Peppermint’s shoulder, close enough to breathe in the scent of Old Spice. It was an interesting choice of cologne; masculine and traditional compared to so many others on the market. She shifted a little, and instantly his arm slid around her waist, tugging her to him in a gentle hug.

“Hey Baby Doll, keep that good luck flowing my way,” he told her with a grin around the unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. “Poppa’s up by a cool two thou, so let’s see if we can keep this streak rolling, huh?”

Sara grinned, wanting to laugh at how easily the man slipped into his roles. Despite the seriousness of the job they were concentrating on, there were moments like this that were simply . . . fun. She leaned down, breathing into his ear.

“That’s two pairs of Astrabellas right there—are we going for a full closet?”

“I like to keep you in nice things,” he replied in a low voice, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Shoes, furs, lingerie . . ."

“Mmm, I bet. So are you going to take another hit?”

“It’s a fourteen, so yes, I should,” he replied, gesturing to the dealer, who snapped down a seven of clubs. The arm around her waist tightened; in a loud voice, Mr. Peppermint called out, “That’s my Baby Doll, yeah!”

The rest of the players gave polite acknowledgement of Mr. Peppermint’s win, and he scooped up the chips after leaving the dealer a generous tip. Sara linked her free arm through his and they sauntered through the casino, smiling, and speaking in undertones as they did so.

“See him?”

“Couldn’t miss him; not in that Stetson and plaid suit,” Mr. Peppermint replied with a hint of amusement. “If Harrington ever visited Scotland he’d be run out of the country.”

“Hey, those are the suits that made him famous,” Sara pointed out. “Established him as an icon of Vegas.”

“Proving that not all the clowns work at Circus Circus, I guess,” Mr. Peppermint shot back. “So it’s nearly eleven-thirty and I’ve got two grand at our disposal—may I buy you some fancy footwear?”

Sara looked at the man, and caught a glimpse of something shy and almost wistful in his expression. She lifted her chin and let her grip on his arm tighten a tiny bit a she shifted the weight of Grenadine in the other. “A man willing to buy me shoes—this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

“Consider it putting my best foot forward—but keep in mind we only have about twenty minutes.”

“Pffft! I can make your two thousand disappear in ten . . . Poppa,” she replied with a smirk. “Tell me, do you like leopard print?”

“Rawr,” came Mr. Peppermint’s cheerful reply as they strolled towards the shopping Bazaar.

***

The big man in the brown leather suit sat in the dainty French Provençal chair, filling it and making it creak. The woman opposite him gritted her large teeth and tried not to let her irritation show; she forced a smile.

“So. Are you willing to take the job?”

The big man gave a slow nod, and the light gleamed off his bald head. His complete stillness was unnerving, and Lois O’Neill blinked a little, pressing her arthritic red-nailed hands on the Louis XIV table between them. “Good. She’ll be at the Seraglio for dinner tomorrow night, so you can set it up any way you want. You’ll be handsomely compensated for the short notice and my name is to be kept out of it completely, understand?”

Another slow nod; impatient, Lois glared at the man, her smile suddenly cold. “It’s polite to answer a lady when she asks a question, buster.”

“I understand that you want me to kill Portia Richmond.” The man rumbled as he rose up, higher and higher, unfolding to his majestic stance of six and a half feet. “And you are no lady, Miss O’Neill. “

She leaned back in her chair, her cold smile widening; casually Lois held out her hand and inspected her nail polish in a feminine gesture both practiced and deliberate. Diamonds glittered on her rings, and she gave a low contented sigh.

“Well, we have a consensus on THAT, anyway. Half the money tonight, the other half afterwards, when this town is in mourning, got it?”

“The Seraglio—what if she’s got company?” he asked thoughtfully, moving to the door of the penthouse apartment.

Lois gave a contemptuous sigh, and rolled her eyes, looking towards the window, where the glorious lights of the Strip glittered like jewels in the dark. She chuckled coldly. “Then it’s going to be a very bad night for champagne, isn’t it?”


	3. Chapter 3

_“In the United States, the only good guys working undercover are in the movies.”_

**\--Brian De Palma, film director**

 

The shoes were perfect, Sara grudgingly acknowledged. They were perfect and gorgeous and she resented those facts because she was going to have to give them BACK in a few days and it all seemed so unfair to indulge in such heavenly delight when heartbreak was just on the horizon.

Across from her in the lush little boutique, Mr. Peppermint was lounging in an overstuffed chair, slidng looks from her face to her slender ankles as he absently held the Pekingese, and his stunned expression was utterly gratifying. Sara shifted, crossing her legs in a slow, sexy fashion, showcasing her best feature for him.

Mr. Peppermint swallowed, visibly.

“Baby Doll liiiiiikes,” Sara teased, running a hand down her calf, stroking her stocking in a flirtatious manner. Grenadine gave a snorty yip; guiltily Mr. Peppermint loosened his grip on the little dog and petted him in apology.

“They’re all yours then, Foxy honey—consider them our first investment in Vegas,” he replied, stroking his goatee to hide his smile. Sara rose and sauntered across the thick carpet, putting a swing into her hips; that little swagger of faintly aggressive femininity was enough to make Mr. Peppermint laugh. He got up himself and winked at the obsequious salesgirl, who managed a tremulous smile back at the pair of them, wringing her hands softly.

“An excellent selection! Do you wish to wear them now, or should I wrap them up for you?” she breathed, hyperventilating a little at the thought of her commission. Sara shot a slightly smutty glance at Mr. Peppermint, who arched an eyebrow in return.

“She’ll be wearing these all the way up to the master bedroom,” he replied smoothly, sliding an arm around Sara’s waist and letting one big hand cup her ass. Slightly startled, Sara squeaked, pressing up against him.

Through the sparkling glass window of the Astrabella shop, another startled woman looked up from the display on the velvet risers, studied the couple sharply for a moment, and then turned away, shaking her head slightly. Catherine Willows tightened her grip on her shopping bags and headed along the walkway of the Sirocco’s Bazaar, fighting off the sense of déjà vu. She made her way through the lobby and passed the front desk, heading for the bank of elevators there.

* * *

Jelly Bean blearily checked his Rolex, trying to focus on the numbers, but they were giving him trouble and it wasn’t due to the lighting in the bar. Next to him, an angular blonde with a dazzling smile scooted a little closer and he felt her hand slide along his thigh.

“So, Dooley honey, going to show me your penthouse?” she purred in a tone meant to be seductive, but was in actuality a bit strident, even over the noise of the bar. He turned to look at his companion and managed a big grin.

“Sure! My uncle and almos’ aunt would LOVE to meecha . . . what was your name again?”

The woman’s expression soured and Jelly Bean gave an exaggerated hurt look as the hand withdrew. “Oh come on, baby . . . I can’t remember EVERY girl’s name that wants ta sleep with me, because there sure are a LOT of you . . . help me out here—it’s . . . Lulu, right?”

“Allison. You know, I have to get up really early tomorrow, so—“ she slid off the barstool, already fishing in her purse for her keys. Jelly Bean blinked, and pouted.

“You’re . . . mad,” he deduced, waving a red straw at her like a baton. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and this time her smile was definitely chilly.

“No, that would take effort,” she snorted, and sailed out of the bar in long strides. Jelly Bean watched her go, a sense of regret tingeing his relief; ah, the high price of a good con. Turning back to the amused bartender, he rolled his eyes and sighed.

“How about you?” Jelly Bean demanded. The bartender picked up the empty glasses and considered the question.

“Nah, I’m not mad at you, but to be honest, I’m not your type, either,” he announced in his rich rumble of a baritone. “My boyfriend’s the jealous sort anyway.”

This cracked Jelly Bean up, and he was still snorting giggles all the way up the elevator ride to the penthouse floor. His suit was wrinkled; his shirt unbuttoned nearly to mid-chest, and his hair had gone from gelled spikes to some wild shock of wilted brown frizzle. He yawned, and staggered out of the elevator into the short hall. There were only three doors here, and he made his way to the one with the gleaming gold plate on it, jabbing his door card several times at the lock before succeeding in getting it into the slot. The light went green and he pushed the door open, yelling lightly, “Hey it’s me and guess what? I almost scored!!”

He staggered into the suite, nearly stumbling as Grenadine waddled out and inspected him cautiously. Jelly Bean waved and squatted down; the Pekingese shuffled closer and gave the outstretched fingers a welcoming lick.

“Almost?” came Grissom’s sardonic question. He walked out of the smaller bedroom, and for a moment Jelly Bean didn’t say anything, too caught up in grinning foolishly. He pointed a finger at the older man and laughed a little.

“Wow. You look like . . . Hugh Hefner’s brother or something. Silk pa-JA-mas—very GQ, my man!”

Grissom glanced down at his nightwear and gave a shrug. The royal blue heavy silk was outré, and certainly not something he himself would choose to wear, but for a character like Pete Williamsen, it definitely fit. “Call it camouflage. Sit down before you fall down—room service will be here any minute.”

“Food, good idea,” Jelly Bean agreed, waltzing around in a loose-jointed way, the dog following after him. “I hope they have coffee.”

“Exactly how much did you have to drink in the last three hours?” Grissom demanded, moving to knock lightly at the door of the master bedroom. Jelly Bean sprawled on one of the overstuffed sofas in the living room and counted on his fingers.

“Um . . . whisky with you, then two seven and sevens, a tequila and one and a half wine coolers. Do you think we can teach the dog to untie my shoes?”

“He’s smart enough,” came the absent reply. Jelly Bean looked over as the bedroom door opened, and he blinked, struck momentarily speechless by the sight of Miss Chocolate in a long satin nightgown of creamy peach, edged with black lace. It had a diaphanous robe of matching black, as sheer as a stocking.

“Greg, you’re a little bit wasted,” came her amused assessment.

“Sara, you’re a whole lot beautiful,” he blurted back. “Like, total Vargas girl pinup beeeeeeuuuutiful!”

“Wasted,” Miss Chocolate repeated.

Grissom said nothing; he couldn’t, not with Miss Chocolate standing there, like a goddess in her shimmers and gleams. The satin was thin, and clung to her in a loving caress, emphasizing her long curves and sleek build. He tightened his jaw, all too aware of his body beginning to respond to the vision of her; definitely approving in the most basic, masculine reflex.

“You look very nice,” came his monotone, and he turned away, moving, almost trotting to the house phone. Scooping it up, Grissom hit the number for room service, barking into the line. “This is the Golden Harem suite; where’s my Goddamned food!”

As if on cue a knock on the door sounded out before anyone on the line answered, and Grissom slammed the receiver down.

Jelly Bean laughed delightedly. “Wow. Now THAT’S the way to get service!”

Miss Chocolate sauntered over and pulled open the door, admitting a rolling cart covered in clean while linen and dishes of sterling silver. The short woman in the chef’s hat and coat carefully pushed the rolling table in and looked from face to face for directions; Miss Chocolate gestured to the little alcove near the balcony.

“We have ambrosia with kiwi, pineapple and bananas, a choice of cold salmon, roast beef and Virginia ham, a selection of croissants and rolls in white, rye and wheat, couscous with olives and mushrooms; a relish tray, an assortment of cheeses, fresh grapes and melon balls and a freshly made lemon sorbet for dessert. To go with that I have a Penfolds Grange Blush, two thousand four,” the chef nervously told them all, her voice a squeak.

Grissom broke the pause by clearing his throat, and striding over, nodding as he looked at the uncovered dishes. “Nice. Sorry about the . . . yelling.”

“Sir?” the chef asked, clearly confused.

Miss Chocolate gave a throaty giggle and glided over, slipping an arm around him; instantly Grissom stiffened, in more ways than one.

“Aw Pete baby this looks great! You even remembered the grapes too, sweetie!” she purred, one hand coming up to stroke his cheek.

The chef quickly busied herself uncorking the wine and Grissom felt hot all over. Carefully he shifted, patting Miss Chocolate gently on the derriere as he pulled away. “You bet, Baby Doll. I . . . have to go make a call. You go ahead and get started without me a sec, okay?”

She deliberately rubbed noses with him, and Grissom had to close his eyes as the sensory input threatened to overload every neural synapse he had.

“’Kay, Big Daddy—hurry back,” she whispered, trying not to giggle. Grissom managed a rictus of a smile and strode to the bedroom, remembering a moment too late that he’d just walked into the wrong one.

Over on the sofa Jelly Bean managed a half-hearted tug of war with the dog, using his necktie.

“Come on, Gren—I really LIKE this tie. Foxy! Call your dog off already!” he grumbled.

Grissom closed the door a moment and took a deep breath. It was essential that the chef see them as the spoiled guests they were supposed to be; he understood that. What was difficult was reminding himself that although this role took some liberties, he himself could NOT.

It wasn’t Miss Chocolate’s fault she was so . . . delectable; so good at playing off of her seductive capacity. Grimly he paced for a moment, deliberately thinking of other, less interesting thoughts. The inventory for the Book Hive. The new range requirements for the Candy Shop. Whether or not the new Mercedes was developing an oil leak. When he felt he’d managed to calm down sufficiently, Grissom took a breath and came to a decision.

He’d have to kiss her.

It was as simple as that—once he’d kissed her, the tension would break and he’d be able to concentrate on the job at hand without all this stomach-tightening anxiety. Once they’d gotten over that symbolic physical act, everything would flow much more smoothly and the three of them could get through this damned con.

He lightly rubbed the goatee, wishing he could take it off first, but that would have to wait until right before he slept. Grissom opened the door and stepped out again.

The Chef was pouring wine; Jelly Bean and Miss Chocolate were on the sofa, each with a plate in hand, taking turns slipping treats to the dog, who kept his attention alternating between the two of them. Jelly Bean’s plate was at an angle inviting an accident, and Grissom moved, righting it just in time.

Grenadine looked massively disappointed.

“You need to get to bed, Lightweight,” he sneered, but with a grin. “And next time, Dooley, stick to the Daniels—less wear on the brains.”

Jelly Bean pouted, but lurched a little, rising to his feet. “Oh suuuuure, pick on me because I have a faster metboltabism than you. Welllllllllfine. I’ll just go eat my melon balls all by myself then!” With unexpected grace, Jelly Bean rose and swerved around Grissom, balancing his plate and singing softly to himself. Grissom shot an embarrassed look at the chef and shrugged as the door to the guest bedroom slammed.

“My sister’s kid—what can I say?”

She made no reply as she handed him a plate, but her smile was quick and warm. After settling for a roast beef on a croissant, Grissom took the spot vacated by Jelly Bean and settled in on the sofa. Grenadine gave him a wary look. Miss Chocolate held out a grape in slender fingers.

“We ARE in the Harem Penthouse,” she murmured. Grissom slowly smirked. He leaned back and beckoned to her imperiously with an index finger, and Miss Chocolate batted her eyelashes at him. She slid forward, leaning close and popped the succulent green grape between his lips, never dropping eye contact with him.

Grissom neatly swallowed it, arched an eyebrow at her, then looked at the chef, who was blushing slightly. He rose up and handed the woman two twenties, folding them into her palm and winking.

“With my compliments—now g’wan, don’t worry about breakfast for us, okay?”

The chef practically curtseyed and scurried out, grinning. Grissom closed the door behind her, locked and turned around. Miss Chocolate went pink, having just been caught checking his posterior in the silk pajamas. She leaned over the back of the sofa, trying to look innocent; utterly unaware of the deliciously provocative sight she made doing so.

“Blue is definitely your color,” she commented, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Grissom fought the urge to cross his hands over his lap and instead, walked over to her. He shot a careful glance towards the closed bedroom door, then back down into Miss Chocolate’s face.

He leaned closer. “I’m going to kiss you. You’re having too much fun provoking me, and my . . . response . . . is definitely unsettling. Frankly one good kiss between us will do a lot to bring both our tendencies to heel.”

“Oh you thinnnmmm—" Miss Chocolate began, and her words muffled themselves against Grissom’s mouth as he cupped her cheeks and lightly dove in, his mouth dropping on hers with tender certainty.

Miss Chocolate’s kiss was soft and shockingly warm; Grissom pressed on, savoring the plump sweetness, the responsive surge of it back against his own mouth. Reluctantly he pulled back after a few unforgettable seconds, and caught his breath, looking down into her face.

Her liquid brown gaze was half-closed; she licked her bottom lip in a dreamy daze, breathing a little accelerated.

Not that his own was particularly steady--the pleasurable flush all through his body, inside and out--left him physically tingly and aching, but that didn’t matter.

His mind was clear.

Settled.

Rational again.

Grissom gave a slow sigh. “All right then. Much better.”

“Y-you’re telling . . . me . . .” Miss Chocolate blinked, flushing a delicate rosy color. “Yah, better. Can we do it again?”

Grissom let his fingers slide down her warm cheeks and he straightened up, giving a thoughtful nod. “Yes, we probably should. About once a day would help—if you’re willing.”

Miss Chocolate nodded unsteadily, blinking. “Um, once a day? Like--a vitamin? Like some sort of . . . prescription?”

“Exactly. A therapy to keep the tension from building up too much and potentially causing a problem for our charade,” Grissom murmured decisively. “I see it as a perfect . . . failsafe.”

Miss Chocolate wore an interesting expression.

*** *** ***

The pool at the Sirocco curved in a crescent moon, and highlighted with tropical palms artfully landscaped around it. Green and gold awnings with Arabian designs on them shaded tables and guests as waitresses circulated, refilling drinks.

Sara lay face down on a lounge, drinking in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. One advantage Las Vegas had over San Francisco was heat, and for the moment, she appreciated it. Her sun block was nearly in the three digits of course, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying herself.

She knew in a few minutes she’d have to get up and start getting ready for the dinner with Portia Richmond; that would require a bath, serious work with a hairdryer, and the full war paint. Normally that sort of intense preparation would drive her crazy, but right now Sara needed the distraction; welcomed it in fact. Anything to take her mind off Mr. Peppermint and his infuriating proposal.

Men.

She’d known he was attracted to her; known since their dinner in Washington, D.C., and it was mutual, certainly. Normally she didn’t usually go for older guys, but Mr. Peppermint had something about him that appealed to her on a lot of different levels. He was brilliant—there was no denying that—and modest. He had a sense of humor, and clearly could think on his feet, which made him reliable in a tight squeeze.

However, he was elusive, and despite their natural partnership certainly not used to working with women. She wondered if he was involved with someone already, and that thought left her feeling a needle of jealousy. Nothing in his file indicated any significant others in his life beyond his widowed mother, and given the kiss he’d laid on her, he certainly wasn’t gay—

That kiss. Soft, commanding, and sweet in a way that made her toes curl even now. Chaste, as kisses go, but with enough heat to show he knew what the hell he was doing. Mr. Peppermint was no virgin, not with that lip lock in his repertoire.

Sara sighed, thinking back to the previous night.

Mr. Peppermint had taken her silence as some sort of agreement to his bizarre proposal and had gone to chase Jelly Bean out of the guest bedroom. In turn, Jelly Bean had staggered out and curled himself up on the over-stuffed sofa with Grenadine at his feet, leaving herself to climb into the king sized bed of the master suite and TRY to sleep. It had taken a long time, and she’d debated one rash move after another, eventually dropping off somewhere around three.

In the morning, she was alone with the dog: the note left behind for her indicated that Mr. Peppermint was off for eighteen holes of golf, and Jelly Bean was going to look around the Chip Harrington lot at the corner of Rainbow and West Sahara.

So she’d taken Grenadine to the spa with her and they’d both had their nails done.

He was a surprisingly good listener, and Sara, who never before had considered talking aloud to a dog, did so for most of the afternoon; currently Grenadine was snoozing up in the penthouse while she lay here at poolside. A shadow fell across her, and Sara shifted to look up at her visitor, being careful not to expose too much from her untied top.

“Yes?”

“Your shoulders are getting pink,” Mr. Peppermint observed calmly. Grudgingly Sara scooted over to make room for him at her hip, and he sat, looking exactly what he was supposed to be: another rich tourist. His lime guayabera shirt and beige slacks gave him the look of some plantation owner, but she couldn’t see his eyes behind his silvered aviator sunglasses.

“So maybe you better rub more lotion on me, Honeybear,” she purred loudly, reaching for the bottle and lazily passing it to him. In an undertone Sara asked, “How was your game?”

“Off,” he retorted, squeezing the sunscreen out and coating his palms. “Rental clubs, crowded course . . .” he trailed off and Sara felt a surge of impishness fill the moment. Poor Mr. Peppermint was going to have to touch her, right here in public.

She deliberately slid her arms up and folded them under her chin, waiting patiently, knowing what she looked like in just her tiny red bikini bottom and silver toe rings. Then, very softly Sara felt the press of Mr. Peppermint’s hands along the middle of her back.

“If this is some sort of feminine payback for my sensible suggestion of early this morning . . .” he murmured in a voice meant for her ears only, “then touché. However, the point is that you’re very distracting for me. I’m NOT trying to be controlling or play mind games, Miss C—I simply need some way of coping with . . . this.”

Sara turned her head, breathing more quickly now. The glide of his hands along her back left undeniable tingles. “This?”

Before he could reply, a voice called out across the pool to them, loud and petulant. “Okay guys, I am NOT your dog sitter here!”

Jelly Bean stalked over, carrying Grenadine under one arm like a football; the dog didn’t seem to mind at all by the wagging of his fluffy tail. When Jelly Bean set him down he waddled over to Mr. Peppermint and sniffed his shoes. Jelly Bean started up again, putting more whine into his tone. “It’s not my JOB to take care of your spoiled dust mop here, Foxy!”

“You don’t HAVE a job, Dooley, so drop the sulky face, kid. Now come on, we’re all having dinner with someone who’s got REAL class in this town, and I’m not having either of you screw it up. Foxy, baby, wear those fancy shoes I got you—Dooley, no God damn jeans, you hear me?”

“What the hell? I have plans for tonight, Pete!” Jelly Bean snapped back. “Big plans!”

“Fuck’em. We’re having dinner with Miss Portia Richmond, kid. Most guys would give their left nut for a chance like this.”

“Who’s that, Baby?” Sara interrupted softly, pulling her towel to cover her chest loosely as she gracefully sat up, long legs sliding off the lounge to the cement. Mr. Peppermint sighed patiently, aware of a few people at the pool beginning to listen in.

“She’s . . . big, okay? More money than a camel-humping Arab, and real class. Vinnie Correrra introduced me back in Chicago last year and it’s only right I pay back the visit here in Vegas.”

“Greeeeat, some old zombie with crayon-colored eyelids who used to dance in the chorus line when Moses was playing craps. Just who _I_ want to meet,” Jelly Bean whined. Sara bit her lips to keep from laughing, but Mr. Peppermint rose up and casually, brutally backhanded the younger man in one swift swing.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Dooley. You wouldn’t know real class if it flew out of your tiny asshole and crowned you Miss America you little punk. You’ll come to dinner and you’ll be bowing and scraping because if you don’t, so help me to mother-fucking GOD I will forge your induction papers and have you shipped to Iraq, you little weaselly cocksucker!”

Stunned, Sara reached for Jelly Bean, nearly dropping her towel, and if it hadn’t been for his quick, amused wink to her, she’d have thought he was seriously hurt. As it was, he wiped his mouth, leaving a smear of blood across his lower lip.

“That’s right Pete, keep pushing. One of these days . . .” Jelly Bean warned in a shaky voice. He glared around, defying anyone to meet his gaze, and slowly slunk away, shoulders slumped. Sara watched him go, and drew a deep breath. She looked up at Mr. Peppermint, who had taken off his sunglasses and had hung them on his shirt pocket.

“He’ll be fine. Come on Baby Doll—we’re dressing for dinner.” With that, he scooped up Grenadine and turned to look at her. Sara caught a look of concern on his face, and she smiled, faintly in return.

Game on.

***

The Seraglio was centered right in the heart of the Tangiers, an opulent open courtyard five star restaurant showcased by lovely Moroccan grille walls and towering palms. Portia Richmond made her way to her usual booth, led by her bodyguard, and followed by her secretary. Heads turned, voices rose and fell as she passed; Portia managed a few brilliant smiles for old friends and new admirers. She wore an embroidered tunic suit of charcoal that set off her white hair and ropes of pearls to perfection.

Vartann checked the area, discreetly, helped her into the booth and did the same, lingeringly, for Reggie. Portia felt vindicated for that—the girl looked stunning in her chocolate velvet dress, and sooner or later she’d HAVE to notice young Samuel’s admiration.

“Ma’am, your guests are on their way,” Vartann murmured, taking up his usual spot just behind her right shoulder. Portia nodded, and took a moment to brace herself.

Chip arrived, and Portia noted sourly that he was already carrying a drink in his hand as he lumbered towards the table. The plaid suit of the day was a sorry blend of avocado green and butter yellow, with tiny red and blue lines through it; Portia was reminded of trailer park upholstery. She smiled though, and held out a hand to the man now looming up at the booth table.

“Chester—it’s been a very long time.”

He made a face. Chester “Chip” Harrington was a long tall man in the shape of a T, with broad shoulders and lanky arms. He had a stiff crewcut of white hair and shaggy dark eyebrows; a slightly crooked nose and thin lips. The eyes were startling though—a pale watery blue, capable of sparkling or going glacial depending on his mood. At the moment he seemed only slightly annoyed.

“Portia, you KNOW I hate being called Chester,” he reminded her in a low, Okie twang. “Jest as much as you’d hate being called Patty.” He scooted into the booth and eyed Reggie for a moment. Portia sighed.

“I legally changed MY name—Chip—Thank God for small favors. This is Miss Owens, my secretary,” she added politely. Chip managed a smile and lightly shook her hand.

“Well, ain’t you a SOLID gal! Looks like you’re getting the most value for your money with her, Portia,” he commented with a tight little smile. “Per pound that is.” Portia sensed Vartann growling slightly under his breath. She shot Chip a quelling look as she lightly patted Reggie’s hand; the girl was blinking and trying not to show any reaction.

Las Vegas was a hard town sometimes.

“Oh she’s taken Chip—besides, I’m sure you’ve got quite enough to handle with your--what is it now--three? Ex-wives?”

Moodily Chip finished off his drink. “Bitches, every one of them. Vampires, bleeding me dry . . .” Before he could finish his lament, Vartann bent down and whispered to Portia once more. Overhead, the glittering glass ball began to turn, throwing sparkles of green and red light around the dining area.

“Your other guests are here, Ma’am.”

Portia looked up and noted the three strangers, feeling a thrill surge through her—it had been a long time since she’d pulled a con, but for dear Heather . . . She held out a hand to the commanding gentleman in the black St. Laurent suit; he handed her a long stemmed rose in return. Startled, touched, she smiled and took it.

“Portia, you look as great as you did in Chicago last year! Foxy here, she asked me just today, she said, “Petey honey, is Portia Richmond as classy as everyone says? And I tell her oh yeah, Baby Doll, you bet. And this is my sister’s kid, Dooley. Introduce yourself, boy.”

She smiled. He was good, this one—he’d managed to tell her all three of their names in his opening comment, and establish a prior relationship as well. Portia held out her hand to the young man, who stammered a little and went red.

“PleasedtomeetyouMa’am,” he mumbled shyly. Portia smiled and turned her gaze to the young woman in the slinky forest green Vera Wang mini dress and leopard print heels. The lights glittered off her glossy curls.

“And this is the girl I’ve heard SO much about, Peter—oh she’s definitely foxy. I’m sure you have your hands full with her.”

Portia noted that HE blushed; she didn’t.

“This is Chip Harrington an old . . . friend of mine,” she reluctantly admitted. Harrington nodded to them all and let his gaze stay on the girl. A cocktail waitress glided up and took orders.

They moved in, fitting nicely in the horseshoe shaped booth, murmuring softly, talking in quiet voices. Vartann kept a quiet steady stance just off Portia’s right shoulder. She discreetly checked her watch; forty-five minutes until the show at the Atlantis. Enough time to eat and be gracious. When the waiter arrived, she smiled at him.

“Ivan, how good to see you again. Miss Owens and I would both like the house salad and couscous please, with a glass of wine. Chip? Peter?”

“Lamb, but scrape the mint and shit off of it,” Chip muttered. “No point in whoring up good meat.”

Portia caught a quick look between the mysterious Peter and his lady friend; a glance of common distaste that immediately endeared them to her. She hid her smile as Peter spoke up, looking over the menu.

“What would you like, Foxy?”

“Um . . . polenta, please, with some yogurt?” the woman murmured. He nodded. “And I’ll have the Moroccan chicken then. Dooley, what looks good to you?”

“I dunno—I never heard of this sh-stuff before. Kabobs I guess,” came the slightly sulky reply. The waiter nodded, collected the menus and slipped away, leaving a little silence in his wake.

Portia cleared her throat and spoke up, softly. “Well Peter, I’m so glad you could finally get to Las Vegas—tell me, what’s new with you?”

It was the perfect opening, and she listened attentively as the handsome man in the goatee spun out a history of his work in reclamation and repossession, skip tracing and collateral transportation, winding down with “. . . And so because of my God-damned ulcers, the doctors tell me it’s time to get out of the high stress end of the job. I’m looking into getting into another line—maybe something with fleet services or cars. Less of a pain in the ass, easier on the stomach.”

“Cars, huh? There’s more to it than repossession, buddy,” came Chip’s slightly morose interjection. “Sales are a whole different ballgame.”

“I’m willing to pick it up, if the price is right,” came the indignant counter. “Repo takes balls, not bullshit.”

“Repo takes heat, I’ll grant you that, but it sure as hell isn’t work, not compared to what I do. All a repo man does is grab and run—nothin’ much to THAT!”

Samuel Vartann suddenly noticed that through the whirling red glints moving across Portia Richmond’s profile there was now ONE red spot, centered on her temple, that didn’t move. He reacted, slipping between her and the light, and turning to face the direction it came from even as he tried to reach for his holstered Sig Sauer.

He didn’t make the draw. A soft ‘zing’ filled the air and a flock of fabric erupted on his right jacket sleeve, just a few inches below his shoulder. Blood gouted out in a quick spray. Vartann sucked in a breath and twisted, staggering to push Portia down. Another ‘zing’ shattered the wine glass in front of her. Reggie yelped.

Immediately the restaurant exploded in panic.


	4. Chapter 4

_“The Candy Shop? I mean come ON—sounds to me like somebody out there thought Hudson Hawk was good enough to rip off—and that’s pretty twisted thinking right there. If you’re going to be a shadow organization out to right injustices, using Willie Wonka as your mascot is just wrong.”_

**\--Jay Leno, Host of the Tonight show**

 

Sara slouched in the chair, shivering a little; seeing it, Mr. Peppermint took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The scent of his Old Spice and the immediate enveloping warmth of the coat shifted the tension from her shoulders to her stomach. She looked up into his face and caught his look of concern; stiffly she smiled.

“When can we go to bed, Honeybear?” she murmured with just the right amount of weariness and longing to make him draw in a breath. Mr. Peppermint gave her shoulder a squeeze through the jacket.

“Just as soon as the cops get through their damn questions. Soon, Baby Doll, soon.”

It had been five hours since the pandemonium at the dinner table. They were in the Seraglio employee’s lounge, along with Jelly Bean, Chip Harrington, Portia Richmond, Reggie Owens and several of the staff.

The detective in charge of the case, Captain Judy Miller, was quietly questioning their waiter in another room, and for the moment, everyone was silent. Portia, who had been comforting her teary secretary finally rose and came over to Mr. Peppermint, speaking to him in a low voice.

“This has nothing to do with you,” she murmured, pretending to brush away a spot on his lapel. “Take my word for that. It might be a good opportunity to keep commiserating with Chip.”

Sara heard her words and pretended not to; she felt Mr. Peppermint move away, and Portia sit beside her on the hard plastic chairs. The older woman sighed a little and cocked her head, looking at her.

“A little more drama than any of us was expecting tonight, that’s for certain. Love your shoes.”

Sara managed a smile; Portia spoke again, more softly this time. “You three will be released fairly soon, I’m certain.”

“I hope your bodyguard is okay,” Sara murmured gently. Portia blinked hard, smiling tightly.

“I do as well, thank you. Samuel’s been with me for three years. He’s a very good man.” So saying, Portia patted Sara’s hand gently.

The door opened, and Captain Miller looked in at the faces turned expectantly her way. She gestured to Portia with her chin. “You’re all free to go for tonight—everyone but Miss Richmond. We’d like all of you to stay in town, however, should we need to question you further. Miss Richmond—"

Portia rose regally, and winked at Sara before looking at Captain Miller; Jelly Bean and Mr. Peppermint each came up alongside her.

“Come on, Baby Doll, let’s get some quick grub and call it a night.”

The three of them left, walking wordlessly out of the casino. Sara slipped an arm around Mr. Peppermint, slowing her steps to match his, and the comfort felt right for the moment. Jelly Bean had his tie undone, and his hands shoved into his pockets. He was mumbling a bit, and turned back to the two of them, walking backwards for a moment as he did so.

“Her, or him?”

Mr. Peppermint tucked his chin low, his eyes glittering. “Her. Anyone after HIM would probably use a tire iron in a dark alley.”

“Good point. But WHY her? Why now?” Jelly Bean demanded softly as they passed out the doors of the Tangiers. 

Mr. Peppermint shrugged. “Portia Richmond didn’t get to be on top without a few secrets and a few enemies. As for your other question . . . I don’t know. Maybe whoever was doing the job knew her schedule and figured a public hit would make it harder to trace. At this point I think we could do with some food, some sleep and a lot of laying low.”

Sara nodded. The adrenaline was fading, and in its wake was a sluggish fatigue. She yawned as a taxi pulled up. Jelly Bean whipped off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket.

When they walked into the dark penthouse, a slightly frantic Grenadine danced around their feet, and the faint stench of urine reached them. Mr. Peppermint glanced at the dog, who whimpered apologetically.

Jelly Bean sighed and picked him up. “Not your fault, really. I’ll take him for a hike around the greenbelt at the pool,” he offered.

Mr. Peppermint nodded gratefully. When the door closed again, Sara stretched, and carefully stepped out of her Astrabellas. “I’m taking a shower and going to bed.”

“Sensible plan.”

“And YOU are going to tuck me in,” she continued in a lazy tone.

Mr. Peppermint froze for a second. “Not quite as sensible,” he retorted.

Sara looked over her shoulder at him. “So you say. I missed dinner; I’m tired and feeling a little insecure now. Come on—cater to me for just this moment, okay? Because I don’t know about you, but getting shot at puts this charade into a whole new perspective,” she sighed.

It was good to see his face change a little at her words; the quick glance of concern as he took a step closer. “When you put it like that . . . all right.”

Sara held his gaze, her expression deepening to something a bit more serious. She tightened her lips. “I mean it.”

He nodded, slowly. “So do I.”

***

Grissom held his breath a moment as he scowled at the television in the guest bedroom. One room over, the shower had stopped running several minutes ago, and he struggled NOT to imagine what that bathroom probably looked like—filled with fragrant steam, scented with Gardenia and wet skin . . . . Shaking off his thoughts, he closed his eyes.

The shooting had been unexpected, but had a few bonuses. He’d called Miss Lollipop to assure her that their identities were holding up and that nobody other than the unfortunate bodyguard had been hurt. She in turn told Grissom that her sources at Desert Palm knew the man would be fine in a month’s time; the bullet had passed through his arm, but his Kevlar under vest had stopped it from entering his ribcage.

Miss Lollipop also told him that matters pertaining to the shooting were being dealt with, and to stick to the Uncle Chip mission.

Jelly Bean hadn’t returned yet, and that left the small matter of Tucking In. Grissom found himself caught between two opposing wishes; not a place he was used to inhabiting. Part of him hoped that the younger agent would return and continue to be the unwitting buffer he’d been up to this point. The duenna, the chaperone, the essential third wheel . . . the necessary DMZ, Grissom snickered to himself.

The other part of him, however---

His cell phone rang, and recognizing the number, Grissom answered cautiously. “Yeah?”

“I’m down at the bar. Chip’s here and it is THE perfect time to do some schmoozing. Don’t wait up.”

Grissom blinked, his ear filled with the dial tone. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of Miss Chocolate standing uncertainly in the doorway, clad in a knee-length nightie of burnished gold satin. She was drying her hair, and looking both young and vulnerable.

“Who was that?”

“Hmm? Greg. It was Greg,” he managed, setting the phone down on the nightstand without dropping it. “He’s with Chip down at the bar, so we might be getting a repeat of last night’s five and a half drink performance.”

“Ah,” Miss Chocolate smiled. In the light of the lamp she had more shadows and curves. Grissom looked at her for a long, quiet moment, then swung his feet off the bed and stood up.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” he asked quietly.

She smiled crookedly. “I nabbed two yogurts from the mini bar, along with some V8.”

Grissom gave an approving nod. “I was thinking of some microwave popcorn myself.”

Miss Chocolate nodded back. “Got a movie in mind?”

“Actually I was going to finish reading The Art of the Deal; I picked it as window dressing for this mission, but it’s much better than I thought it would be,” Grissom confessed, gesturing to the book on the chair. “Not that I’m actually planning on going into the used car business, but at least I’ll know how to drive the bargain now.”

“That could come in handy,” Miss Chocolate agreed, and a little awkward silence filled the moment after that. She broke it by moving back through the bedroom doorway. “Anyway, I’m going to try and sleep . . .”

“A good idea. Come on; let’s get you in bed.”

The unfortunate innuendo made both of them avoid eye contact, but gamely Grissom followed Miss Chocolate into the Master bedroom, the carpeting thick under the soles of his bare feet.

The room was magnificent in sand and gold, with a canopy bed and gauzy drapes decorated with the familiar moon motif. Miss Chocolate folded back the covers and climbed in, flashing a lot of sleek thigh as she did so; Grissom waited until she’d settled in and pulled the puffy quilt up to her waist before he sat down at her hip, facing her.

She looked enchanting sitting up against the piled pillows, and Grissom looked at her for a long quiet moment, appreciating her in this setting; this perfect little moment. He smiled. “I’m going to tell you something, and then I will kiss you—is that all right?”

Miss Chocolate stared back, and the corners of her mouth began to quirk a little. “That would be good. Yeah. That’s all right.”

Grissom leaned closer, a slow and deliberate move, his concentration focused on her face as his expression softened. Miss Chocolate leaned forward too, compelled by something she couldn’t quite put a finger on. They passed into that intimate personal space where their auras overlapped, and Grissom breathed in her soft scent.

“I’ve done a great many missions, and played a lot of different people over the years, and this is the first time that I’ve ever wished I WAS this person,” came his wistful murmur. He watched her eyes widen slightly.

“Because of the money?”

“ . . . No," he told her, and gently brushed his lips over hers, eyes closing. Miss Chocolate sighed with pleasure and her fingers clutched the quilt as their mouths merged, tentatively at first, but with an increasing urgency, their kiss waxing and waning with a hungry tenderness. Grissom broke it off, his thumb stroking Miss Chocolate’s cheekbone as he gave a shuddering sigh. She opened her eyes, desire and confusion in them clear and bright.

He shook his head. “Risky enough as it is.”

“Risky?” she asked.

Grissom nodded somberly. “Risky. I am NOT Pete Williamsen, with a gorgeous and sexy mistress. So kissing you is . . . a matter of balance. Do you see that?”

Miss Chocolate stared at him a moment longer, and the sudden, beautiful curve of her smile sent a warm jolt through him. She nodded. “I’m NOT Foxy Francisco, with a seductive, sexy Sugar Daddy . . ."

“Seductive?” Grissom questioned, slightly startled.

Her smile widened. “Tucking me in. Very. Seductive. Not that I mind a damned bit, but . . . I understand. Go to sleep Mr. Peppermint.” She brought a finger up and lightly pushed his nose with it, grinning.

Carefully Grissom rose up from the side of the bed. He stepped out, flicking off the light, and returned to his own room, feeling oddly happy. Achy and tense as well, but that could be dealt with.

He kept an ear out for Jelly Bean.

****

“She’zz a bitch. Ann he is too. They’re both bitches,” Jelly Bean slurred with venom. “They don pappreciate me At. All.”

“So why the hell are you hanging around with them instead of growing a pair and moving off?” Chip Harrington demanded, a bit more loudly than he’d intended. He and Jelly Bean were moodily sulking together at the far end of the Oasis bar. Grenadine snoozed by Jelly Bean’s foot, his little snores punctuating the occasional silences.

“Because my stupid trus’ fund. Gotta get every damn ‘spenditure co-signed by Re-tard Repo uncle, thass why!” Jelly Bean snorted. “But that ends tonight! Twen’ five years, and I’m master of my own Dessiny! After tonight I don’ need his Hand Johncock anymore! FREEEDOOOMM!”

“Pipe down,” came the chide of the bartender, who barely looked up from the Old-Fashioned he was making. With exaggerated shushing motions, Jelly Bean slunk down on the stool.

Chip Harrington shook his glass, making the ice cubes chingle. “So tonight you’re a big boy, huh? Got some change in your pocket?”

“Wellllsure. If you can call five million ‘change.’ Ya know.” Seeing Harrington’s skeptical look, Jelly Bean managed a hurt expression. “I DO, crossm’ heart and swear. Pete’s been on my ass about--” Jelly Bean made quotation marks in the air, his fingers hooking hard, “--WISE n’vestments and sensible choices. I’ll tell you this—I’m not sinking my damned money in no repo business! No way—I want a thing where people are GLAD to see you.”

“That sure as shit ain’t repo, yeah,” Chip agreed, his expression shifting from annoyed to cunning. “Tell me, Hot Shot—is that why your uncle’s been talking my ear off tonight?”

Jelly Bean gave a loud sigh. “Pete’s an asshole. You heard him—gotta get out before his stomach kills him. And I don’t think those little blue pills are working for him either, know what I mean? Foxy wants a baby.”

“Why ain’t they married?”

“Pete’s too smart,” Jelly Bean snickered, draining the last of his Seven and Seven. Three other glasses stood on the bar, empty. “He’ll give her anything she wants but that. All HE wants is to r’tire in some easy ass moneymaker job and keep screwing Foxy.”

“So he’s interested in my car lots? Shit—what makes him think I’d even want to sell? I’ve got a reputation here,” Chip growled.

“Yeah, well it was your reputation that made us come here in the firs’ place, Chippy my man. Pete sez between your crummy credit and that Santilla story, you gotta be desperate to unload.”

Chip let loose with a string of profanity so low and venom-filled that even Grenadine perked up his ears. Jelly Bean simply nodded, and finally the older man wound down, slamming his glass on the bar. “Motherfucker. I shoulda known. I bet he asked Portia to set this up, too.”

“Don’ know, don’ care,” Jelly Bean announced. “But I DO know Pete’s gonna try hard—full-court press on ya.”

“Let him try—I’ve been selling cars for forty years,” Chip sneered, but his fingers drummed uneasily on the bar. Jelly Bean fought the urge to rush, and speak up too early. He made himself yawn, and wave for the bill, finally laughing a little.

“Yeah, well y’ wanna fuck him over good, I know how.”

“Oh really? And why should I believe a lightweight nutless wonder like you, asswipe?” Chip commented dryly. 

Jelly Bean managed a smirk in return. “BeCAUSE I’m the ligh’weight nutless wonder with cinco de milliona pesos, fuckhead. Pete won’t offer you jack shit what your lot’s worth and you know it. But ME---I’d buy it full price just to wipe the smile off his God damned face, Chipperooo. Think about THAT, why doncha?”

Wobbling, Jelly Bean fished in his wallet and threw down a handful of twenties then wandered out, Grenadine sticking close to his left foot. They entered the elevator, and Jelly Bean picked up the little down, grinning as Grenadine licked his face. “Thank you—yeah, that was a pretty good performance, if I do say so myself, huh?”

They reached the penthouse and Jelly Bean stumbled in, trying to navigate in the darkness and giggling as he did so. After a few bumps and a clumsy, boneless trip, he finally decided that the carpet was just as good as a bed, and drifted off to sleep.

Grenadine curled around next to his head.

***

 

Sam Vartann woke up in a cloud of pain. His right arm lay encased in gauze from shoulder to wrist, and the fog of narcotics made his eyelids heavy. Carefully he opened his mouth, feeling as if layers of cotton were stuffed in it.

“S-Sam?” came a tremulous voice. He turned his head, trying to focus even though he already knew that voice. His heart monitor sped up slightly.

“Reggie? What happened? Portia?” he managed to croak. Reggie rose and came over, bending down into his line of vision and he thought all she was missing were white wings. Her curly copper hair was loose, and she looked as if she’d been up all night, but by God she was still gorgeous.

“Miss Richmond—Portia—is fine. You saved her, Sam. You saved all of us. The doctor says the bullet ripped through a few of your muscles but they were able to stitch them back together so you’ll be fine in a few months.”

He tried to speak, but Reggie’s cool hand was sliding along his cheek and the feel of it was so damned good that he didn’t want it to stop. Reggie spoke again.

“Captain Miller kept Miss Richmond for more questioning, but she’s home now, with police protection. They keep asking who would do this, Sam, and why. They’re going to come talk to you as soon as you’re up for it.”

“Okay. You okay, honey?” he managed, fumbling with his left to grasp her wrist. His fingers hit a bandage and he looked down.

Reggie blushed. “Shard from the wineglass. Nothing serious. Listen Sam—Portia wants you to come to her home to recuperate. She says you don’t have anybody to look after you—is this true?”

Vartann looked at Reggie and reluctantly nodded. “I’ve got a dog, but . . . Yeah.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “I’ll make arrangements for you to be discharged to our care then. I’m so glad you’re all right, Sam.”

He lightly squeezed her wrist, avoiding the little bandage. “Thanks. What about the others?”

Reggie Owens blinked. “Harrington and the guests are all okay. A little shaken up, but then who wouldn’t be? And Portia is fine too. She’s furious the police wouldn’t let her come to the hospital.”

Vartann smiled. “I bet. Feisty to the last, that’s Miss Richmond.”

At that point a nurse came in, and Reggie said goodbye, heading out of the hospital, feeling a relief so light she smiled all the way back to the Richmond estate.

***

“You’re an idiot! Tell me why I shouldn’t put a contract out on YOU!” Lois O’Neill demanded none too sweetly of the man sitting on her living room sofa. The man waited quietly through her tirade, watching Lois pace around the suite, her venom dying down eventually. When she turned to face him again, he spoke up, his words heavy and thoughtful.

“Her usual bodyguard is now out of commission. She’s going to have to restructure her routines, and for a woman of her age that’s . . . unpleasant. I have a better chance of getting closer to her and finishing the job out of the limelight.”

“Oh, and how’s that? You’re not exactly the type to blend in at the tea rooms and hair salons,” Lois snapped, eyeing the man’s height and bulk. He shrugged, his expression as neutral as before.

“I don’t intend to blend in. Portia Richmond has just hired me as her new bodyguard.”

Startled, Lois O’Neill blinked, and a wide smile revealed her horsey teeth in a blinding show of white.

“Oh isn’t THAT just fabulous! No question of background check or licenses?”

The big man said nothing. Lois tried to run a red nail across his cheek but he caught her wrist, encircling it easily as he rose to his feet, his height once again intimidating.

“Now, I want three million for killing Portia Richmond. You can afford it, and this job is a sure thing.”

Lois struggled, trying to pull her hand free but the man tightened his grip with brutal, casual strength. “Three million—with or without the broken wrist, Miss O’Neill.”

“Go to HELL, you leatherboy punkass!” she growled. He squeezed harder, and her eyes widened, but she bit her lips. Finally Lois gasped, and nodded, furious and humiliated.

The man held her wrist a moment more, then gave one hard crush; the sound of dry little bones snapping rose above her cry of pain.

“We have a deal,” he told her, and strode out. She gripped her arm and fought the tears, her big false teeth grinding hard.


	5. Chapter 5

_“Why COULDN’T there be a secret group doing positive black bag jobs? Although if they’re doing them for the side of good, I suppose they’d be white bag jobs—kitchen trash bags maybe, and they’d be led by the Man from Glad or something, because we all know candy comes from a kitchen. Come to think of it, maybe Mary See is running the operation—she looks mean enough.”_

**\--Dave Barry, Miami Herald columnist**

 

The tension in the room was thick and uncomfortable; Sara tried to focus on her paperback, but it was harder than she’d thought possible. Carefully she shifted on the sofa, trying not to draw attention to herself. At least not Mr. Peppermint’s attention. She turned the page and put her focus back on the insipid prose in her hands.

 

_Jezelle batted her limpid blue eyes at Rex, the towering, enigmatic specimen of breathtaking manhood standing before her._

 

Oh brother.

 

“Three,” Chip Harrington growled, pushing the cards across the table. Mr. Peppermint expertly dealt three cards and went back to his own hand as he puffed on his cigar. The room was quiet again, and Sara risked a quick peek over the top of Love’s Furious Passion After Midnight towards the table. Mr. Peppermint’s profile was to her, and she allowed herself to admire it. When she shifted her gaze, she caught the leer of Chip Harrington; he gave her a little kissy pucker of his thin lips.

 

“I’ll say this much, Pete—you may be a sumbitch, but you got taste in broads. I like this one—she’s quiet, for one thing.”

 

“Only in the living room,” Mr. Peppermint corrected, his words slightly mumbled around his smoldering cigar. He flicked the heavy ash into the tray at his left elbow. “You in?” he gestured to the pile of chips between them. Harrington scowled and nodded, shoving three markers in. Sara watched in fascination as Mr. Peppermint winced ever so slightly.

 

_His broad shoulders looked perfect for hanging onto, and those eyes! A woman could drown in the perfect crystalline blue of them, Jezelle thought dreamily._

 

“Oh that’s gotcha, huh? Yeah, I knew that winning streak of yours couldn’t last much longer, cocksucker!” Harrington gloated, his leathery face breaking into a smile. “What’s the story?”

 

“Oh you’re too good for me, yeah, “ Mr. Peppermint conceded, setting his cards face down and flexing his fingers. “But you’re the local—stands to reason, y’know? You have the edge and all.”

 

“Damned right I do—I’ll just collect these little beauties if you don’t mind. Fuck, even if you DO mind!” and he broke into a barking laugh as he scraped his hand along the table, sweeping the chips towards himself. “Yeah, I was blessed at poker, but it’s a flooded market here, you know. Cars are better. People always need a way to haul ass around this town.”

 

“Yeah, in fact, seeing how you’re already on a lucky streak I was thinking you might want to make it even better, Chip,” Mr. Peppermint murmured. Sara rose up from the sofa, feeling a need to stretch a bit; it amused her how both men stopped a moment to eye her as she reached up over her head and let the long lines of her body open up. Sara smiled prettily at Mr. Peppermint.

 

“You want another beer, Honeybear?” she purred. The cigar in his mouth twitched a bit, but he nodded, and glanced at Chip.

 

“How about you?”

 

“Hell yeah—I don’t have to show up at the lot until seven tonight anyway . . .” he agreed, openly eyeing Sara’s ass as she sauntered over to the luxury fridge and bent over into it.

 

Mr. Peppermint cleared his throat forcefully, and managed a steely smile. In an undertone both pleasant and low, he growled, “Just for the record, I’m not the jealous type—looking’s free, especially in this town. But—any finger that touches her gets taken off with bolt cutters. We clear?”

 

Chip Harrington managed a sour grin, and went back to stacking his winnings. “Oh, sure thing, Chicago—as you said, no harm in looking.”

 

“Exactly,” Mr. Peppermint nodded. “And speaking of looking, Dooley tells me he’s checked out your lot over at Rainbow and West Sahara. Says you’re getting ripped off right and left out there too.” As he spoke, he shuffled the cards and dealt a new hand, expertly flicking the cards across the table.

 

Sara set the beers out, making a point to untwist the cap off Mr. Peppermint’s with the edge of her tiny tank top, revealing her trim, flat stomach.

 

Chip slowly picked his new cards up, scowling. “Yeah, well Dooley is talking out his asshole. What the hell would HE know about anything beyond working his way through a damned bar?”

 

“Enough to make me agree. Sure he’s a shiftless bum, but he was in Wharton for a few semesters before he dropped out. He says your Lot men are charging double your set rate for credit checks and pocketing the extra, and two of them are tacking on a bogus transaction fee for sales to illegal aliens. Now I’m sure you already knew about the bait and switch on the tires and the odometer rollbacks—hell, you’ll find those on any lot—but Jesus--stuffing the used airbag compartments with newspaper . . . that’s bad fucking press just waiting to blow up in your face.”

 

Chip had gone magenta, and his eyes were cold blue bloodshot marbles now. He leaned over the table, his expression menacing. “I don’t know what the motherFUCKING shit you’re talking about, dickdrip, but you need to stay the FUCK out of my business!”

 

Mr. Peppermint shot him a mild look over the top of his cards. “Yeah, sure thing, Chip. I’m sure a guy like you with a sterling reputation and deeply philanthropic streak’s gonna do just fine. People will forget all about that little Latina gal and her baby, dying because you sold her a brake-free car . . ."

 

“Shit!” Viciously, Chip threw his hand down on the table and wiped one big palm over his face. “One wetback woman and her kid—Jesus, people die in car accidents every day . . . why the hell this one has to the one everyone remembers. Fuckin’ beaner. Wish she’d never come on the damned lot in the first place!”

 

Sara watched, mesmerized as Mr. Peppermint delicately shrugged, little puffs of smoke coming off the end of his cigar. He said nothing, and the pause stretched on so long she felt like screaming. Finally, Chip drew in a deep loud breath and exhaled it in a chuff. “Fuuuuuck. You want the lot.”

 

“Me? I didn’t say that,” Mr. Peppermint countered, but Chip gave a slow nod, his expression shifting from desperate to cunning. He planted both elbows on the table and leaned forward.

 

“You don’t have to, Slick. You come to town, get Portia to introduce us, and them move in for the kill. Have your asswipe nephew snoop around for the dirt and then offer me some rock bottom bid on a prime business. I’m wise to it. Wasn’t born yesterday, bastard.”

 

“Ooooh yeah, you got me dead to rights, Chip,” Mr. Peppermint replied lightly, “deal?”

 

“Gimme two,” Chip replied distractedly, dropping his pair of discards on the table and picking up his beer. He scooped up the cards and his eyebrows twitched just a fraction. Sara hid her smile and moved behind Mr. Peppermint, resting her hands on his shoulders; through the vintage silk Hawaiian shirt they felt strong and warm. Carefully she began to knead his muscles, and she could feel his voice as well as hear it when he spoke again.

 

“Fine. We’re men of the world, and you’re right—I’m not going to bullshit you. Yeah, I want one of your lots. Hell, I’d take all three if the price was right. I’m not getting any younger, and repo’s high stress—me, I just want to settle down and keep stuffing my 401k for a while.”

 

“Not the only thing you plan on stuffing, regular,” Chip interjected snidely, but Sara felt Mr. Peppermint give a pleasant little growl.

 

“You bet. I work better when I’m getting Foxy pie nightly. Point is, I’m in a good position to make you a pretty decent offer, Chip.”

 

Chip fanned his cards and didn’t say anything; Sara kept rubbing Mr. Peppermint’s shoulders, and bent down to nuzzle his ear slightly. His hand looked good—full house, tens over threes.

 

“You in?” Chip grunted. Mr. Peppermint sighed, and pushed a few chips towards the pot. Harrington smiled, and laid down his cards. “Three kings.”

 

“Beats me,” Mr. Peppermint sighed and laid his cards face down again. Stunned for a moment, Sara was about to protest then held her tongue as he turned and brushed his cheek against hers. “We’ll have to recharge my luck soon, Baby Doll.”

 

She smirked, and gave his shoulders a last squeeze, then sauntered back to the sofa, dropping onto it and picking up Love’s Furious Passion After Midnight once more. Grenadine snuffled in his sleep and rolled over; she absently stroked his silky tummy as she tried to focus on the adventures of Jezelle and Rex and keep an ear out on the conversation at the table.

 

“So you wanna buy my lots. Well just for shits and giggles, what makes you think your offer’s better than anyone else’s, Chicago? I’ve had folks wavin’ money in my face for years. And we’re talking a LOT of money.”

 

“How many of them were waving cash? Even in Vegas that’s not too common, buddy. I can have one and three quarter million in your hands tonight, no problem. You can sign over your lots and get the paperwork all tidied up, and walk out with a suitcase full of bills, ready to start over somewhere else, or just blow the whole damn wad on premium bush and booze for all I care. Point is, you’d be free.”

 

That thought dangled in the air, tempting and taunting all at the same time; Sara fought a squirm. So close to closing the deal—sooo close—

 

“Oh fuck THAT. A million a lot, Williamsen—they’re prime; been bringing in business for almost thirty years,” Chip snapped, his eyes narrowing again.

 

“Don’t knee my balls with that shit, Chip. Your tax returns are telling me that you’ve been losing profit steadily for the last seven years, and the bad PR you’ve gotten lately hasn’t helped. Your staff are chipping away at your profits and you personally have been funneling money out of THEIR retirement fund to keep yourself afloat. I’m a betting man, and frankly I’d lay money on the IRS looking into an audit this year—that is, if the BBB and the government regulation boys don’t go after you first. Get smart, pal, and get out while the getting’s good.”

Another long pause, and Sara held her breath. Finally, Chip Harrington deflated. His shoulders slumped and he ran a free hand through his brush-cut white hair, his jaw clenching a bit.

“Two and a half.”

 

“Don’t make me laugh. I might go as high as one seventy five, but that’s only if we can close the deal before this weekend. Higher than that and I’ll just wait for the foreclosure auction and take my chances.”

 

“You son of a bitch.”

 

“Cash, Chip. No paper trail, no pesky waiting periods,” Mr. Peppermint smiled, waving his cigar expansively. “No need to explain or justify or say a word to anyone . . . not even the ex-wives or the creditors.”

 

Another pause circled the room, and Sara realized she was holding her breath, waiting for one of them to speak. Next to her, Grenadine gave a little sleepy snore.

 

“Jesus. How do I know you’re not just yanking my dick, Chicago?” came Chip’s voice, less whiny now, more thoughtful. Sara heard Mr. Peppermint stub his cigar out and call to her.

 

“Foxy baby—go bring me a brick, will you honey?”

 

“Okay," Moving slowly, gracefully, she rose up from the sofa, still carrying her book. She slipped into the Master bedroom and stepped out of sight, fishing in the top drawer of the dresser to pull out a ten thousand dollar stack, the money band still around it. Sara carried it out, her nose still buried in her book as she tossed it to Mr. Peppermint, who caught it with one hand.

 

He laid it on the table, and pushed it towards Chip Harrington. “A hundred and seventy of those—I bet you’ve got a briefcase somewhere they’d fit into nicely. Have it on the passenger seat, or as your carry-on luggage somewhere . . ."

 

“Well now . . . . you paint a real pretty image there Williamsen, but I’m not much of an artist. I might need a little time to get the whole picture, you know?” Chip murmured, his fingers touching the stack. Mr. Peppermint smiled. He reached over and tore the mustard-colored paper band, then shuffled the bills, fanning them out in a glorious spread of green as he plucked one from the center.

 

“Here. What I owe you for the game, and then some. Call it a little something to sweeten the pot,” he murmured, handing it to Chip. The other man took it, running his fingertips over the surface, sniffing it slightly.

 

Sara wanted to laugh at the naked greed on Harrington’s face. Instead, she turned the page of her book, humming a little. She heard Chip’s chair shift and he rose up, tall and bombastic.

 

“We might have something to talk about at dinner then. Y’all ARE buying me dinner tonight, right?” he grinned in a nasty way. Sara looked to Mr. Peppermint, who nodded slowly. She got to her feet, stretching again, but alert.

 

“Absolutely. The Desert Rose, a nice private dining room in the back I think. No point in tempting a gunman twice, right?”

 

Chip guffawed. He bent down and deftly plucked two other bills and tucked them in his pocket, smirking. “Jest a little more—to keep the pot nice and sweet. Around eight then?”

 

Mr. Peppermint nodded, his eyes steely even though he was smirking in return. “I’ll send Dooley around to pick you up, Chip.”

 

“Sounds like a night to remember, “ he nodded, and made it a point to deliberately, arrogantly brush against Sara as he made his way out of the penthouse. Mr. Peppermint got up and followed him, opening the door. He smiled a not particularly nice smile.

 

“I think you owe my lady an apology, Chip, because I KNOW you didn’t mean to rub your dick on her . . . did you?”

 

Chip drew back, his expression slightly sulky. “Don’t get your damned boxers in a knot, Chicago. You don’t set the candy out if you don’t want the guests to nab a . . . piece.”

 

“Yeah? Well call me a lousy host. You’ve got three thousand of my money in your pocket and your balls still attached to your worthless crotch—count yourself lucky, Chester. See you at eight.”

 

***

 

The door closed, and Grissom turned, feeling heat running through his face as he did so. Miss Chocolate was there, within arm’s reach, her eyes like fine whiskey in the afternoon light. He cleared his throat.

 

“I’m sorry. I know you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself, physically and verbally, but Harrington is more than just a chauvinist, he’s a misogynist as well—“

 

“—Shhh. Allow me a Foxy moment here . . . “ Miss Chocolate murmured, shifting closer, and laying a finger on his lips to silence him. “Not only did you give up several winning hands of poker to that plaid clown, but you also set the hook and defended my honor not once, but twice in the process. Mr. Peppermint . . .” she breathed, brushing her mouth over his, over the finger resting between his lips and hers, “You . . . are . . . amazing . . .”

 

“ . . . Not really . . . I just hate to . . . see him getting . . . away with boorish behavi—"

 

Miss Chocolate cut him off, effectively, sweetly with a good solid kiss. Grissom fell back against the door as he pulled her with him, and his hands slid down her waist to curl defiantly around the peachy curve of her ass. For some reason this move startled him, even though SHE was the one to squeak, and grind oooohhh-so-pleasantly against his hips through that delicious liplock.

 

Grissom kissed harder, feeling his hunger flare up, his control erode—and then Miss Chocolate broke the kiss and brushed her lips along his cheek, moving towards his ear. The heat of her breath made his spine twitch; Grissom shifted uncomfortably, aware that there was now something between them she couldn’t possibly miss.

 

“If I really WAS Foxy, I would drag you off to that Master bedroom and SO have my way with you,” she sighed, and Grissom bit back a groan. “However, I completely understand your policy of ‘one kiss a day’ so I thought I’d get it in early, in case things finish up tonight and we don’t get another chance.”

 

He swallowed. “How . . . considerate of you.”

 

“Mmmm Hmmmm,” she agreed, and the little press of her stomach against his left him slightly dizzy. The thought of the king-sized bed and an entire afternoon there, lolling about those moon-flecked sheets with this sleek, sensual woman--

 

Reluctantly she pulled away, reaching back to peel his hands off her derrière, as she smiled at him crookedly. “I’m going to tell Miss Lollipop that the con’s on, and then go get primped up AGAIN at the salon. You ought to call Jelly Bean and let him know too.”

 

Grissom nodded, and cleared his throat, shifting to turn his hips away and try and regain a little dignity; it didn’t look good to be left up against the penthouse door looking like a love-starved teenager . . .

 

He winced to himself at the comparison, and drew in a deep breath. Forcing a calmness to his voice, Grissom spoke up. “Thank you.”

 

She looked startled, and her amused gaze held curiosity. “For what?”

 

“For telling me what you WOULD have done. I’m . . . flattered.”

 

Miss Chocolate smiled again then, the full and brilliant one that lit up her face and brought out her spirit as well as her beauty. She laughed. “Still might . . . but we have a big plaid fish to land. Are you going to wear your Hugo Boss tonight?”

 

Grissom nodded, feeling a surge of affection as he looked at her. Miss Chocolate arched one eyebrow and nodded. “Good then. I have this slinky gold number I’ve been waiting to wear. I’ll get the salon to stick a matching bow on Grenadine.”

 

“I think you’re getting too fond of that particular prop,” Grissom sighed, and Miss Chocolate laughed. She stepped back to the sofa and scooped up the sleepy dog as well as the novel. Passing Grissom she tossed him Love’s Furious Passion After Midnight with a smirk.

 

“Pages 154 to 157. Hot stuff—you may want to warn your mom before she gets there.”

 

“My mother’s eighty-two,” he protested playfully, “And watches Oz.”

 

“That,” Miss Chocolate smirked at him as she opened the penthouse door and stepped through with Grenadine in her arms, “Explains a LOT.”

 

***

 

“So?” came Jelly Bean’s impatient whine as he stared through his sunglasses at the man walking beside him. They were moving through the car lot, and every few minutes Chip stopped to talk to various customers, smiling and laughing. He finally turned to Jelly Bean and flashed a quick scowl.

 

“One and three quarter million. The stupid fuck thinks I’m going to settle for that.”

 

“Just like I said,” Jelly Bean pointed out sulkily. “I KNEW he was going to screw you. It’s all he talked about on the trip out here.”

 

“Yeah, well he’s got a royal reaming coming his way if he thinks he can drop that penny ante price on me. You sure you have the money, boy?” Chip demanded, shooting Jelly Bean a hard look. Jelly Bean nodded, and gestured to the other man to follow him. They made their way over to the far side of the lot, to a classic Pontiac Trans Am in cherry red, the finish gleaming in the afternoon sun. Chip smiled at the sight of it, a rare, genuine smile.

 

“What the hell is THIS doing on the lot?”

 

“Borrowed it from a buddy of mine over at the Mirage. THIS is your ride to dinner tonight. After we screw Pete over, you’ll have two leather executive briefcases with a cool two and a half million in them,” Jelly Bean sighed. He stroked the hood of the Trans Am.

 

Chip narrowed his eyes. “Your uncle said something about my Lot men cheating me. Said YOU spotted it—how do I know you’re not plotting with him to screw me over, boy?”

 

Jelly Bean waited a moment, then pulled off his sunglasses; in the afternoon sunshine the puffy purple and red of his black eye seemed remarkably lurid. Chip gave a short, humorless laugh. Jelly Bean shrugged.

 

“I’m too old to call it child abuse, and too smart to press charges, but believe me, Chip—he’s the bastard I want to shaft; slow, deep and painful.”

 

“I bet you do,” Chip agreed thoughtfully. “And I’d be glad to help out—for a fair price.”

 

“No problem. I’ve got cash too, and more OF it than dear old Pecker Pete.”

 

Chip flashed an evil grin, his famous teeth gleaming as he held out his calloused hand over the hood of the Trans Am. “Then you’ve just got yourself some car lots, Dooley Williamsen. Let’s break the happy news to your family over dinner, whatcha say?”

 

***

 

Jelly Bean fidgeted. It was hard NOT to, not with so much at stake. He paced in the suite, talking to himself, completely oblivious to Grenadine eagerly trotting after him around the sofa. Finally losing his patience, he bellowed, “Guys, are we READY YET?”

 

“Jeez, hold your horses, Greg—“ came Sara’s grumble through the Master Bedroom door. The guest room door opened and Grissom leaned out, bow tie in hand, his expression slightly sour.

 

“Getting a little impatient, Greg?” he replied.

Jelly Bean took the chide with a quick shrug of his shoulders. You could say that, yeah . . . What’s with the bow tie?”

 

“It’s called style. Unfortunately, it’s also a pain in the neck, literally,” Grissom groused, whipping the band of black silk around his upstanding collar. “Are you all wired up?”

 

Jelly Bean held out his arms and nodded, “Yep, set to go at the right time. You?”

 

“Yes.” He looked over as the Master Bedroom door opened. Jelly Bean let out an admiring groan.

 

“Oh hub-ba hub-ba! You look hot, Sara. Like, Mount Vesuvius hot. Mauna Loa hot. Mount Rainer hot!” he praised, grinning. His black eye made him look a bit like a battered scarecrow in his St. Laurent grey suit; Sara looked at his face and clucked.

 

“Your shiner might need more red, and thanks.” Turning to Grissom she spun once and looked to him for approval. “Good to go?”

 

Sara wore a strapless formfitting mini dress of scrunchy velvet material in velour gold. The color set off her chocolate curls and gave her skin a sheen in the light of the penthouse. Her stockings were tinted brown, perfectly matched to the leopard print Astrabella high heels. He took his time looking her over as Jelly Bean passed him on the way to the bathroom.

 

“That outfit and 'good' do not belong in the same sentence,” he commented with a faint smile. Sara’s grin widened as she accepted the compliment with a little nod. She moved closer and took the bow tie ends from his hands, neatly tying it up for him and patting his shoulders.

 

“I think YOU are the pot calling the kettle black here. Seriously, you should see if Wardrobe will sell you this suit.”

 

“After tonight, they may insist,” Grissom winced. He moved to the mini fridge and fished out a clear plastic box, handing it to her with a small lift of his eyebrow. “For you—"

 

“Oh my God,” Sara blinked, looking at the delicate leopard orchid nestled in baby’s breath. The flower was a rich blend of brown spots over gold petals, and matched her outfit perfectly. “I . . . “

 

“Whoah, nice posy. So, we’re set?” Jelly Bean interrupted, bouncing out, his black eye a bit more emphatic looking.

Grissom sighed, and gently helped to pin on the flower. In a low whisper he murmured, “Next time, the boy gets his own room.”

 

“Possibly in a different hotel,” Sara agreed, smirking.


	6. Chapter 6

_“If the Candy Shop actually DID every good deed attributed to them, they’d be bigger than the CIA and running 24/7. Not even major corporations do that. To me, that’s just all the more proof they’re an urban legend.”_

**\--Mark Mansfield, Director of Public Affairs, CIA**

 

The three of them strode out, unobtrusively dropping off their keys in the mail slot at the main desk. Jelly Bean stood at the curb and slid into the Trans Am as the valet pulled it up, waving goodbye as he did so. He drove off, talking softly to the dog in the crate on the passenger seat.

“Okay Gren—thanks for playing along, it’s been a kick, but now it’s gonna get a little ugly and you don’t need to be there for that part. I’m taking you back to Gum Drop and then going to pick up one very ugly bastard for dinner. See you in about four hours, if Hodges doesn’t get you home before then.”

The dog snuffled and settled down in the crate, sighing. Jelly Bean laughed a little and slid a finger into the slats, feeling the soft lick when he did so. “Sara really likes you too—which is kinda cool because I never thought she was a dog person. Of course, I didn’t think she was a bikini person either—"

***

Sara felt the tension right in the pit of her stomach, and smiled anyway. She stepped along the little covered walkway from the main dining area of the Desert Rose and followed the waiter as she held Mr. Peppermint’s arm. The waiter ushered her in and winked; she winked back at Jaw Breaker, then turned her attention to the secluded standalone dining room

Show time.

“The bar in here is all yours—I’ll be back to take your dinner orders in a moment," Jaw Breaker told them, stepping away.

Carefully Sara stepped into the intimate dining room and looked around approvingly. The other tables had been moved to the sides of the room, leaving a single one in the middle, set for four. A champagne bucket on a stand had a bottle chilling in it already. She spoke up. “Beautiful.”

“Private. The restaurant thinks we’re shooting a movie here, so we won’t be disturbed. The props are in place—all we need are the players,” Mr. Peppermint murmured, looking at her and smiling. She allowed him to help her into her chair, and he took the one opposite her, settling into it and reaching into his inside breast pocket for a cigar. She smirked.

“Picking up a bad habit.”

“Blame my aunt Doreen,” he replied, waving the Cohiba expansively. “She dated cigar men, exclusively.”

“Really? Did she rate them by the cost of their Cubans?”

Playfully Mr. Peppermint examined the length of the cigar gripped between his thumb and forefinger and arched an eyebrow. “Possibly. I never really asked.”

At that moment the glass door opened and Jelly Bean swaggered in, chin high. He took his sunglasses off in a dramatic fashion and glared at Mr. Peppermint. “I brought Chip with me.”

“Good kid. First thing you’ve done right all day,” Mr. Peppermint replied with forced good humor. He looked past Jelly Bean at Chip Harrington, who was still dressed in the same ratty plaid suit he’d worn during the poker game earlier. “Chip. What can I get you to drink?”

“Scotch and water; hold the water. Wooo, the Candy Dish here is looking pretty hot tonight. Nice dress, sweetheart—you look like a Bit O’ Honey bar in that thang!” Chip rumbled, trying to kiss Sara on the cheek.

She managed to avert his embrace with an apologetic smile by dropping her napkin. “Oops, maybe I’m more of a Butterfingers.”

“Good one!” Chip agreed, clenching his teeth a little. He turned to smirk at Mr. Peppermint. “So, I guess we’re here to celebrate, eh? Let’s see what this place has to offer a hungry seller.” He ambled over to the bar and began to pour himself a drink.

 

It was an uneasy dinner. Sara watched as Mr. Peppermint matched Chip drink for drink, the two of them getting louder as time went on. She and Jelly Bean exchanged a worried glance or two, but there didn’t seem to be any opportunity to intervene. Jaw Breaker had taken their orders: Prime rib for Chip, filet mignon for Mr. Peppermint, lobster for Jelly Bean and Gruyere mushroom soufflé for herself.

They ate.

An hour later, Chip was telling an off-color story involving a test ride and two blonde teenagers while Sara pretended to listen. Jelly Bean was slouching in his chair, fidgeting. Sara noticed he had a leather bound document folder he’d dropped on one of the side tables, the thing thick with papers. She set her napkin to the side of her plate and batted her eyes at Mr. Peppermint, across the table from her.

He winked at her and gave a loud sigh, turning his smile back to their guest. “All right Chip; you’ve been wined and dined on my expense account, so why don’t we get down to the business at hand. I’d like to wrap this up and still catch a little ESPN and personal prime time before tomorrow.”

Harrington gave a horselaugh and nodded, his eyes glinting with a malicious amusement. He leaned back in his chair, making it creak a bit and blotted his lips with his napkin. “Little anxious are we?” he drawled, giving Sara a serious leer.

“Not anxious at all,” Mr. Peppermint countered, his voice pleasant but his gaze steely. “Just . . . cautious. Just because I deal in cash doesn’t mean I’m comfortable hauling it around all the time.”

“Good point. Now you know nothing’s gonna be official until after we get the deal notarized and shit, right? Unless your bimbette here is authorized!”

Sara was amused at how Mr. Peppermint’s jaw tightened. Almost imperceptibly she shrugged and he relaxed again, puffing on his cigar, forcing a chuckle. “Good one . . . Nah, I’d have to say that most of the things Foxy is authorized in violate the Miller Test, but she hasn’t gone for her notary exam yet.”

Chip looked slightly puzzled on top of his alcohol glow; Sara bit back a laugh and even Jelly Bean smirked at the obscenity law reference.

“Yeah, well whatever. All I know is that she can sign as a witness and all, if you have the cash.”

“Not so damned fast--" Jelly Bean broke in, his voice loud but wavery. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Oh you _don’t_ ,” Mr. Peppermint sneered good-naturedly. “This ought to be good. Why the hell not, kid? You were the one helping me turn the screws for this deal; the one telling me what a great opportunity it was, right for the plucking.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean for YOU—" Jelly Bean stood up, shifting slightly as he did so. In the candlelight his black eye looked darker, and his brooding expression didn’t help. “You’re a bastard, Pete. You used my inside track to get the lowdown on the lots, and now you’re not even going to let me be a part of the operation! Don’t try and _deny_ it—“ his voice began to rise, “—You know damned well I’M the one who’d be perfect for this business, not YOU!”

“Dooley . . . shut up,” Mr. Peppermint told him in a tolerant, slightly embarrassed voice. “You’re talking out your asshole. Chip and I have a deal--"

“--No you don’t,” Jelly Bean broke in loudly, “and this time, YOU’RE the one talking out your asshole, Asshole. Take a look.” Moving a little clumsily, Jelly Bean picked up the leather portfolio and waved it in the air between them. “--to wit and I’m paraphrasing here—Chester Harrington has just sold the three lots that comprise the entire business of Harrington Motors of Las Vegas Nevada to ME, Dooley Williamsen, for the fair and decided price of two and a half million dollars, in cash, this twentieth day of November, two thousand and six. It’s been notarized and witnessed, so you are SHIT out of LUCK, Uncle Asshole!”

For a long moment no one in the dining room moved.

Sara froze, caught in the moment of witnessing the rising rage along Mr. Peppermint’s face. His brows drew together, his mouth pursed, and his normally bright blue eyes glistened like shards from an iceberg. Carefully he set down his cigar and glared across the table at Jelly Bean, his gaze a cold laser.

“What the _fuck_ did you just say . . . boy?”

“I said . . . “ Jelly Bean growled, a slightly squeaky sound, but loaded with malice as he set the portfolio on the table, “I just fucked _you_ out of the deal. My good buddy Chip here decided that his lots were worth the extra three quarter million I offered, so he and I hung you out to dry, Petey _boy_.”

“You haven’t got the money—" Mr. Peppermint accused, but his expression held a hint of panic. Jelly Bean smirked, his expression gleefully furious.

“Oh yes I DO, old man. I hit twenty-five two days ago, and now I’M in charge of my trust fund. And the first thing I decided was how I was going to jack you out of this contract. I knew you’d lowball Chip, just like you’ve done in every other deal you’ve ever made. You taught me _good_ , Pete, and now it’s time to bend over and take it yourself—“

Mr. Peppermint moved, rising and lunging out of his chair, knocking it over as he surged towards Jelly Bean. Sara screamed; startled as the two men grappled for a moment.

“You God damned punk! I’ll strangle you!” Mr. Peppermint ground out, reaching for Jelly Bean’s neck. Jelly Bean swung a strong right cross, managing to land it on Mr. Peppermint’s cheekbone. Chip jumped up and backed away a step, watching the struggle sardonically.

“Knock it off, Pete—the kid offered me more money, fair and square. You two wanna fight it out that’s fine with me, but I’m going with the better offer—"

A gunshot, muffled but unmistakable exploded between Mr. Peppermint and Jelly Bean. Still locked together, they slumped towards the table, and Jelly Bean’s voice echoed out. “Fuck you! Don’t think I came here without SOME way of protecting myself!”

“Oh God, he SHOT him!” Sara screeched, darting around the table and yanking on Jelly Bean’s arm. He swung free, his eyes wild, the gun still in his hand. Blood gouted out of a charred hole in the front of Mr. Peppermint’s suit and his stunned expression was growing pale. He swiped blindly towards Jelly Bean again, and managed to snag the gun with bloody fingers.

“Pete! Oh GOD, Pete!” Sara screamed, turning to face him. Unsteadily Mr. Peppermint raised the gun and fired it; Jelly Bean staggered back, his hands slapping against his chest, blood squirting between them.

“Oh crap.” Chip Harrington muttered, stunned. He stared for a moment at the carnage; Mr. Peppermint had slumped against the table, making the china rattle before he dropped to the carpet. Jelly Bean stood swaying a moment longer, his contorted expression pleading as he turned to him.

“Jesus—Chip . . . help me!” he groaned. “Oh God . . . “ his knees began to crumple and he swayed; Chip caught him and staggered a little under the dead weight.

“FUCK that, buddy—you are on your God damned own, pal!” Immediately Chip shoved him away; Jelly Bean hit a chair and fell on the floor, blood still leaking out of him.

Chip turned, wiping a hand over his face, his eyes glittering with cunning and panic as he stared at the prone body for a moment. “Son of a bitch, he’s dead. YOU—" Chip hissed at Sara, “If you know what’s good for you _whore_ , I’d suggest you start running. I left before this all happened, I don’t know a God damned thing about a shooting, we were all happy with the deal! I don’t need this shit and I’m OUT of here. You breathe a WORD you cocksucking bitch and I’ll make sure it’s the _last_ one you ever say!"

He stepped back to the door, and gave a humorless chuckle, flashing his trademark grin back at the scene. “Shit. Good thing you left all my money in the Trans Am, ain’t it, Dooley boy? Looks like I’ll end up with a good price for my lots after all—and since my potential buyer’s dead, I’ll get to keep both the money AND my business. Thanks a million, you Chicago dickheads—Christ, I LOVE working with suckers.”

 

Sara wept. She moved from Jelly Bean to Mr. Peppermint, shifting until his head rested in her lap, her fingers stroking over his face lightly. The blood had stopped pumping now, and dripped in wet little splashes onto the carpet. "Oh God, I didn't know it was going to be like this . . . ." she sobbed for a moment.

Then she burst into deep giggles.

Across the room, Jelly Bean sat up, groaning. "Crap, Grissom, anybody ever tell you you've got a _hell_ of a grip? Did you wrestle in college or something?" He rubbed his neck under the open collar of his shirt.

"I was on the debate team, Greg. Any tactile strength I've got comes from shelving books, or working the firing range. For the record, your right hook is pretty impressive itself," Mr. Peppermint commented, opening his eyes to look up at Sara. He blinked a little, and reached a hand up to her chin. “Are you all right?” 

“Well, considering just I watched the two of you gun each other down and got threatened by a used car salesman . . . yeah.” Carefully she helped him up and gave a mournful sigh at the ruined suit. The squib had left a charred hole in the vest and the fake blood had stained both that and the jacket. “Ooh, you’re right; Wardrobe isn’t going to be happy.” 

“His is fake; mine was a tube of the real stuff,” Jelly Bean sighed, wiping a sticky palm on his sleeve. “Ew. Come on, we’ve got to get moving.” 

Swiftly all three of them did. Greg passed out jumpsuits from under the bar; Sara climbed into hers as Mr. Peppermint did the same for his. They carefully began to peel up the stained carpet underfoot, revealing a clean brick tiled floor under it. Once they’d rolled it up, Greg and Sara moved the dining tables away from the walls and carefully set chairs about while Mr. Peppermint bussed the dinner away, loading all of it—dishes, bottles, cups and table cloth--into two plastic tubs, sealing them up with lids. 

He passed them to Jaw Breaker, who disappeared with them, and returned a few minutes later with a tray of table decorations and candles. “The anonymous call about the stolen Trans Am’s been phoned in, and I made sure to take out one of his tail lights and loosen the steering column after dousing the carpet in it with a little Scotch,” he grinned. Mr. Peppermint nodded. 

“Good. And the hotel?” 

“Bubble Gum hacked in, and you’re out. Nobody by the name of Williamsen stayed at the Sirocco this week.” 

“Wonderful. See you back at the shop.” 

“Will do—when I get off shift here, “ Jaw Breaker gave a mock-mournful sigh, and headed out the dining room door. Sara took the centerpieces and set them up on the tables while Greg lit the candles and smoothed a few of the cloths. Sara hefted one end of the rug as Mr. Peppermint lifted the other, preparing to carry it out of the dining room. 

“Okay, so now we go get cleaned up and see if the anything interesting hits the police scanners.” 

*** 

Grissom didn’t watch the news; instead, he kept his gaze on the profile of the woman sitting next to him on the sofa, watching her concentration as SHE watched the news. On the wide screen, the film crew was showing a highly agitated Chip Harrington arguing and struggling with police officers. The reporter’s voice spoke on. 

“ . . . When a routine police stop brought to light a number of troubling items that may lead to potential charges. Harrington, a Las Vegas icon, was found in a reportedly stolen car along with two suitcases filled with two and a half million dollars in counterfeit bills. Police aren’t commenting on the other discrepancies, which include a false ID and passport, along with heavy traces of human blood on his clothing and a blood alcohol level of point one three. Harrington, who was implicated earlier this year in the negligence death of Marisol Santilla and her son Diego is refusing to cooperate with police and is currently in custody. In light of the passport police here consider him a flight risk and he is being held without bail pending an investigation. This is Amie Drake for Channel Eight News.” 

As the broadcast shifted over to a commercial, Jelly Bean smiled, and pumped a fist in the air, “Yes! Once again, the Shop rules!” 

The sound of skittering toenails made all three of them look over towards the lounge door; Grenadine scampered through, pursued by Gum Drop. 

“Get back here!" he groused, but the dog made a determined leap, clambering up on the sofa between Miss Chocolate and Mr. Peppermint, licking the woman’s hands delightedly. 

She laughed. “Gren!" 

“Adding escape artist to his list of accomplishments?” Jelly Bean laughed, coming over to pet the dog. Gum Drop made a depreciating moue, but made no move to pick up the dog. 

“He’s retired—his only official duty these days is as a stud. Rough life.” 

“Maybe he’s looking for relationships that are . . . more meaningful,” Miss Chocolate laughed again. 

This time Grissom felt his own mouth turn up slightly. Gum Drop sighed. 

“Bite your tongue—he’s already charmed the pants off of—well charmed Miss Lollipop as it is. With this sort of spoiling I doubt he’s going to be willing to go back to my mother’s.” 

“We could use a mascot around here,” Jelly Bean interjected, grinning, “After all, grenadine is a candy syrup, right?” 

“Pomegranate or black currant juice and sugar, actually,” Grissom added, softly stroking the little dog’s head. “But it’s definitely fitting for the Shop.” 

Gum Drop rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Shouldn’t you three be off celebrating, anyway?” he muttered over his shoulder as he left. 

“I’ve got plans already,” Jelly Bean smiled, pulling out a wallet. “Chip’s, by the way. Let’s see how much cash he’s got.” 

“Greg!” Miss Chocolate burst out. 

He waved the thing at her playfully. “Oh come on, Sara—you don’t think that fake ID and passport just showed up in his pocket all on its own, do you? I had him right when I fell against him. Let’s see . . . whoah! He’s got three thousand right here!" 

“—That’s Shop money Greg, from the poker game,” Grissom chided. “It’s got to be returned.” 

Jelly Bean sulked a moment. “Spoilsport. Okay, let’s see—credit cards, a few small bills, a blank check . . a condom—ew, generic AND expired—and a list of phone numbers. I wonder what these are?” 

“I’m willing to bet that the police might be interested in them too,” Grissom pleasantly pointed out. “More evidence to nail your con?” 

“Worth checking out, anyway,” Jelly Bean agreed, grinning. He gave Miss Chocolate a quick peck on the cheek, then reached across her for Grissom’s hand, pumping it hard. “Totally boss, guys—couldn’t have done it without you two. I’m going to get Bubble Gum to run these through, but between you and me, I don’t think Uncle Chip’s gonna be able to sell as much as a Razor scooter if he gets arraigned.” 

“Probably not,” Grissom agreed, “Who’ll receive Harrington Motors?” 

Jelly Bean grinned again. “Funny thought about signing a contract; if you press very lightly and use disappearing ink . . . good thing I went back and adjusted the paperwork. Looks like each of Chip’s wives will get a lot. Get it? Get a Lot?” 

“We _get_ it,” Miss Chocolate groaned, still petting Grenadine. 

*** 

“Look, I’m sorry to take up your time, but it’s been building up for a while, and you’re about the only person I know I can trust with this stuff,” Catherine Willows sighed. She turned her glance from the beautiful night view out the office window and smiled apologetically. 

“No need, Catherine. I’m honored you trust me, and glad you can finally get some of these issues off your chest. It’s important you come to a realization that you’re not comfortable with your father and some of his actions,” Miss Lollipop soothed. She shifted to cross her legs, and set her notepad down. “I think you need more time to consider a move to Las Vegas though—at least for Lindsay’s sake.” 

“Yeah, I don’t want to yank her out of school at the start of the year, that’s true. But the longer I stay in D.C. the harder it is to deal with Sam.” 

Miss Lollipop nodded. “Maybe what’s called for is a gradual transition. You might want to center a few of your holidays here, with your mother instead of holding parties in Washington. Encourage Lindsay to lay down some roots here too—take her out of your father’s realm of influence.” 

“God yes, especially after what I found last week . . ." Catherine winced. “Do you think I’m too jaded?” 

“Too jaded?” Miss Lollipop questioned, smiling. Catherine sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. 

“That when I found the porn, it wasn’t the fact that it was gay that bothered me so much, but that it was snuff?” 

Miss Lollipop laughed softly. “Ah West Hollywood. You know those are all simulated, Catherine—only three genuine death films have ever been found in over forty years of stag and pornographic movie history, don’t you?” 

Catherine shook her head slowly. “Then the special effects in this one were definitely Oscar-worthy. And I’m caught right in the middle of wanting to turn it in, but not wanting ANY association with the damned thing at all. Not so much for Sam, but for Lindsay and me.” 

Miss Lollipop nodded sympathetically. She leaned back in her easy chair and spoke in a gentle tone, her words light. “If you want, I’d be happy to take it to the authorities myself. I have the protection of doctor-patient confidentiality, and no one from the police will think twice about how a psychiatrist might have such a thing in her possession, especially if I turn it over voluntarily. That way the police can begin an investigation, but at the same time, you and your daughter are out of the limelight.” 

Catherine shot her a grateful look. “You’d _do_ that?” 

Miss Lollipop nodded. “Of COURSE, Catherine—you’re not just my patient, you’re my friend.” 

*** 

The starlight off the water of Lake Mead twinkled brightly; the dock gate at Grace Marina had a string of lights glittering on it too. Miss Chocolate slowly climbed out of the Mercedes and gave a contented sigh. “Thanks for the ride.” 

Grissom chuckled; he couldn’t help himself and Miss Chocolate shot him a puzzled look as he climbed out and looked at her over the top of the sedan. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Well, at some point you’re going to need to buy your own transportation, and we’ve just spent the better part of a week dealing with a car salesman--that juxtaposition amuses me.” 

By now she was grinning herself, looking skyward for a moment. “Oh my God; you’re right. I bet I could get a hell of a deal at Harrington in the next few days . . ." 

“Over my dead body,” Grissom scoffed. “We’ve seen the crap he sold. You want a car; we’ll find you something much safer. Cleaner too.” 

“Is that an offer to go car shopping with me?” Miss Chocolate grinned, moving to his side. They walked together from the parking lot down the concrete path towards the Grace Marina dock gate. Grissom gave a thoughtful shrug. 

“If you like, although we’ll probably differ on taste.” 

“Hey, you bought me shoes," Sara laughed, bumping her shoulder with his, “And even though I’ve got to take them back, I think you’ve got GREAT taste.” 

“What? No!" he objected, brows drawing together. He stopped and faced her, confused. “Why take them back? Didn’t you like them?” 

Now Miss Chocolate looked confused. She blinked a little. “I _loved_ them—come on, they’re Astrabellas! What woman in her right mind wouldn’t love them? But Shop money . . ." 

“I _won_ that money,” Grissom corrected, looking slightly mulish now. “That was my own contribution; I chose to buy you a pair of shoes with the winnings. The Shop has nothing to do with it.” 

For a moment she simply stared at him, and he felt his face grow hot as doubt flooded his thoughts. Then in a quiet thoughtful voice she spoke, her expression solemn. “You are just . . . incredible.” 

“Arrogant?” he asked, wincing a little. She shook her head, eyes luminous in the lights of the gate. 

“Generous. Thoughtful, too. I don’t know if I can get used to that." At that he did blush, and Miss Chocolate gently laid a hand on his shoulder. “But honestly, I can’t keep them.” 

He looked up and flashed her a quick, tender smirk. “You _have_ to—I look terrible in heels.” 

That made Miss Chocolate laugh out loud, and just as she did, Grissom stepped forward and kissed her, catching her delight against his mouth, the sound muffled for a moment between them. 

This one counted. 

Grissom closed his eyes, savoring the velvet heat of her lips against his as he pulled her into his arms. She pressed closer, and gently, mutually, their kiss deepened, mouths opening together in a slow and heady caress. She tasted wonderful, arousing all his baser male desires with the teasing flick of her tongue around his; he genuinely regretted that pesky need to breathe. 

When they broke apart, Grissom cupped a hand around the back of her head and pulled her forehead to his lips, pressing a light benedictional kiss there. Lightly he whispered, “How will I ever manage without one a day?” 

Miss Chocolate looked up at him and by the dim light he could see the dimple on her cheek. “Funny; I was wondering the same thing myself.” 

_NEXT: Candy Shop: Muerto Pequeño_


End file.
